n 


GIFT  OF 


"GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 


A    NOVEL. 


BY 

KBODA    BROUGHTON, 

AUTHOR  OF 

"COMETH  UP  AS  A  FLOWER;"    "RED  AS  A  ROSE  IS  SHE;"    ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW  YORK: 
D.    APPLET01ST    AND    COMPANY, 

549   &  551   BROADWAY. 

1872. 


"  GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEAKT  !  " 

A    TALE     IN    THKEE     PAKTS. 


•  Being  so  very  wilful,  you  must  go  1 ' 


MORNING. 

•  The  sleepless  Hours,  who  watch  me  as  I  lie, 

Curtained  with  star-cnwoven  canopies, 
From  the  broad  moonlight  of  the  sky, 

Fanning  the  busy  dreams  from  my  dim  eyes, 
Waken  me  when  their  mother,  the  gray  Dawn, 

Tells  them  that  dreams  and  that  the  moon  are  gone ! " 


CHAPTER    I. 

WHAT     JEMIMA     SATS. 

A  KINGLY  June  day.  The  hay-smell  drowning  all 
other  smells  in  every  land  of  Christendom :  battling  even 
with  the  ingeniously  ill  odors  of  this  little  drainless  Breton 
town.  People  who  suffer  from  hay-fever  are  sneezing  and 
blowing  their  noses  ;  all  the  world  else  is  opening  its  nos- 
trils wide.  The  small  salon  of  a  small  French  boarding- 
house — a  narrow  room,  with  a  window  at  each  end ;  and, 
in  this  room,  the  two  sisters,  the  two  Misses  Herrick. 

Five  minutes  ago,  the  mistress  of  the  establishment 
entered,  and  closed  the  persiennes  of  one  of  our  windows, 
to  hinder  the  sun  from  abimer-iug  the  cretonne  curtains,  as 
she  said.  She  was  about  to  follow  suit  with  the  other,  and 
only  desisted  on  our  eager  and  impassioned  representations 
that  not  even  a  Breton  sun  can  shine  from  all  points  of  the 


436907 


,,  SWEETHEART!" 


compass  at  once.  Through  the  one  casement  thus  left  us, 
Lenore  is  leaning  out — Lenore,  our  youngest-born,  the 
show  one  of  our  family.  On  her  elbows  she  is  leaning, 
looking  idly  into  the  little  grass-grown  place,  on  which 
Mdlle.  Leroux's  pension  gives.  Jemima — I  am  Jemima — 
is  making  a  listless  reconnoitre  of  the  furniture — the  little 
cheap  prints  on  the  walls,  "  La  Religieuse  d6fendue,"  "  Le 
Guerrier  panse,"  "  Napoleon  I.,  Empereur  des  Frangais  ;  " 
one  long  fern  frond  and  a  single  foxglove  in  a  wineglass 
on  the  mantel-shelf ;  bare  parquet,  cold  to  the  feet.  Jemi- 
ma is  twenty-eight  years  of  age,  and  very  good-natured ; 
at  least,  so  people  say.  I  have  often  noticed  that  the 
eldest  of  many  families  are,  physically  speaking,  failures. 
Jemima  is,  physically  speaking,  a  failure. 

"  How  one  misses  one's  five-o'clock  tea  ! "  says  Lenore, 
looking  back  half  over  her  shoulder  to  throw  this  and  the 
succeeding  remarks  at  me.  "  From  ten-o'clock  breakfast 
to  six-o'clock  dinner,  what  a  dreary  waste  !  How  do  you 
suppose  the  aborigines  stave  off  the  pangs  of  hunger,  Jemi- 
ma ?  Do  they  chew  a  quid  of  tobacco,  or  a  piece  of  chalk, 
or  what  ?  " 

I  reply,  laconically  :  "  Biscuits." 

"  Does  not  your  heart  yearn  for  one  of  those  open  tarts 
with  fresh  strawberries  we  saw  yesterday  at  the  pdtissier's 
in  the  Rue  de  St.-Malo  ?  Mine  does.  I  wish  I  had  asked 
Frederick  to  bring  me  one." 

"  And  do  you  imagine,"  ask  I,  sardonically,  "  that  you 
have  reduced  that  poor  man  to  such  a  pitch  of  imbecility 
as  to  induce  him  to  carry  about  jam-tarts  in  his  coat-pocket 
for  you?" 

Lenore  smiles ;  she  has  that  very  sweet  smile  which  is, 
they  say,  the  peculiar  attribute  of  ill-tempered  people. 

"  I  think,"  she  answers,  "  that  he  is  not  far  from  being 
on  a  level  with  Miss  Armstrong's  lover,  who  allowed  her 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS. 


to  dress  him  up  as  a  sheep,  and  lead  him  by  a  blue  ribbon 
into  a  room  full  of  company." 

Lenore's  face  is  more  round  than  oval ;  it  is  fresh  as  a 
bunch  of  roses  gathered  at  sunrise — fresh,  but  not  ruddy  ; 
her  nose,  though  not  in  the  least  retrousse,  belongs  rather 
to  the  family  of  upward  than  that  of  downward  tending 
noses ;  her  eyes  are  gray,  as  are  the  eyes  of  nine-tenths  of 
the  Anglo-Saxon  race,  large,  though  not  with  the  owlified 
largeness  of  a  "Book  of  Beauty,"  wherein  each  eye  is 
double  the  size  of  the  prim  purse-mouth  ;  in  her  two  cheeks 
are  two  dimples  that,  when  she  is  grave,  one  only  suspects, 
but  that,  when  she  laughs  or  smiles,  deepen  into  two  little 
delicious  pitfalls,  to  catch  men's  souls  at  unawares  in. 

"If  Frederick  were  anybody  but  Frederick,"  say  I, 
sinking  into  an  arm-chair,  and  pulling  out  my  knitting — 
like  most  failures,  I'm  fond  of  work — "it  would  be  con- 
sidered rather  risque  of  us  two  innocents,  travelling  about 
the  Continent  with  a  young  man  in  our  train,  even  though 
he  is  a  clergyman." 

"If  Frederick,"  replies  Lenore,  contemptuously  turn- 
ing back  to  her  contemplation  of  the  place,  and  replacing 
her  gray-gingham  elbows  on  the  sill,  "  were  to  be  caught 
in  the -most  flagitious  situation  one  can  imagine,  that 
Simon-Pure  face  of  his  would  carry  him  triumphantly 
through.  Who  can  connect  the  idea  of  immorality  and 
spectacles  ?  Talk  of  an  angel,  and  you  hear  the  rustle  of 
wings ;  I  hear  Frederick's  wings  rustling  through  the 
Porte  St.-Louis,  and,  oh !  Jemima — Jemima,  quick !  come 
here  !  Who  is  it  he  has  with  him  ?  " 

I  jump  up,  as  bidden — I  always  do  what  Lenore  bids 
me,  though  I  have  the  advantage,  or  rather  disadvantage, 
of  her  by  ten  years — and  look  out. 

"An  Englishman,  evidently,"  I  say,  sagaciously,  "by 
his  beard ;  nobody  but  Englishmen  and  oysters  wear  beards 
nowadays." 


"GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 


"Is  he  going  to  bring  him  up  here?"  asks  Lenore, 
craning  her  neck  out  to  look  round  the  balcony  of  the  cafe 
next  door,  where,  as  usual,  two  fat  men  are  smoking  and 
drinking  coffee.  "  No ;  I  see  him  nodding ;  he  is  saying 
good-bye;  how  tiresome!"  (with  an  accent  of  disappoint- 
ment). 

"  You  are  as  bad  as  the  young  lady  in  Nixon's  '  Cheshire 
Prophecy,' "  say  I,  laughing :  " '  Mother,  mother,  I  have 
seen  a  man ! ' ' 

Frederick  enters  alone,  looking  very  hot  in  the  rigorous 
black  of  a  priestly  coat  that  grazes  his  heel,  and  the  rigor- 
ous black  of  a  priestly  waistcoat  that  almost  salutes  his 
chin. 

"  Enter  a  pretty  cockatoo ! "  cries  my  sister,  with  an 
insolent  laugh,  pointing  the  insult  by  indicating  with  her 
forefinger  the  curly  flourish  of  fine  fair  hair  that  surmounts 
the  young  man's  forehead  and  blue  spectacles.  "Pretty 
cockatoo ! " 

"  You  should  not  make  personal  remarks,  Miss  Leonora," 
answers  Frederick,  blushing. 

"  My  name  is  not  '  Leonora,'  "  retorts  she,  with  a  pout ; 
"don't  lengthen  my  two  charming  soft  French  syllables 
into  that  great  long  English  mouthful,  *  Leonora.'  " 

But  Frederick  is  deeply  diving  into  a  pocket  in  the 
hinder  part  of  his  raiment.  Thence  he  apparently  draws  a 
little  bonbonnibre. 

"  I  have  brought  you  some  chocolate,  Miss  Lenore ;  that 
— that  is  why  I  called  to-day.  I — I  think  I  once  heard  you 
say  that  you  liked  it." 

"  My  dear  cockatoo,  I  hate  the  sight  of  it !  "  replies  she, 
gravely,  with  the  utter  and  unconscious  ingratitude  of  a 
spoiled  child.  "I  ate  it  every  day  and  at  every  confec- 
tioner's in  Rouen  last  week ;  now,  if  it  had  been  a  straw- 
berry tart — open,  fresh  strawberries ;  but  it  is  not — give  it 
to  Jemima." 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS. 


"  Never  mind  her,  Mr.  West,"  say  I,  it  being  my  pleas- 
ing life-task  to  mend  the  breaches  made  by  Lenore  in  her 
adorer's  feelings — I  never  having  any  breaches  of  my  own 
to  mend — "never  mind  her;  but  tell  us  who  your  new 
friend  is  ;  we  have  been  on  the  qui  vive  ever  since  we  saw 
you  parting  so  tenderly  under  the  arch." 

"  Do  you  mean  the  man  that  came  with  me  to-day  as 
far  as  the  Porte  ?  "  asks  Frederick,  who  has  sat  down  upon 
the  music-stool,  and  is  turning  slowly  round  and  round,  in 
order  to  be  able  to  follow  with  his  spectacles  Lenore  into 
whatever  part  of  the  little  room  her  measured  walk  may 
take  her.  "  But,  indeed,  he  is  no  friend  of  mine,"  he  adds, 
uneasily — "  no  friend  at  all ;  a  mere  acquaintance — a  col- 
lege acquaintance." 

"  What  is  his  name  ?  "  inquire  I,  nibbling  a  stick  of 
Lenore's  despised  chocolate,  and  asking  the  question  more 
for  the  sake  of  something  to  say  than  from  any  particular 
interest  in  the  subject. 

"  Le  Mesurier." 

"  Hem  !  a  good  name,  isn't  it  ?  And  what  is  he  doing 
here?" 

"  He  is  making  a  walking-tour  through  Brittany  with  a 
friend  ;  the  friend  has  gone  for  two  or  three  days  to  stay 
at  the  Marquis  de  Roubillon's  chdteau  near  Dol,  and  Le 
Mesurier  is  to  wait  for  him  here." 

"  Where  is  he  staying  at  ?  " 

"  The  H6tel  de  la  Poste." 

"  And  why  did  not  you  bring  him  up  here  with  you, 
pray  ? "  asks  Lenore,  joining  in  the  conversation,  and 
throwing  herself  indolently  on  the  little  hard  horse-hair 
sofa  as  she  speaks. 

"Because  he  would  riot  come,"  answers  Frederick, 
quickly,  and  I  think  I  detect  a  glance  of  malicious  triumph 
in  his  voice. 


8  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

Lenore  reddens.  "  I  dare  say  you  never  gave  him  the 
chance." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  said  to  him,  '  I  am  going  to  make 
a  call  on  some  ladies  at  Mdlle.  Leroux's  pension ;  will 
you  come,  too  ?  I  do  not  doubt  that  they  would  be  very 
happy  to  make  your  acquaintance ; '  and  he  said — stay,  let 
me  think,  I  know  he  worded  it  very  strongly — '  Good  God  ! 
No  !  one  has  enough  of  women  in  England.' " 

"  Interesting  misogynist !  "  says  Lenore,  ironically. 
"  What  a  sweet — what  a  holy  task  it  would  be  to  bring 
him  to  a  healthier  frame  of  mind  ! " 

"  I  don't  really  think  he  would  suit  you,  Miss  Lenore," 
says  Frederick,  nervously,  making  the  music-stool  squeak 
painfully  as  he  fidgets  upon  it ;  "  he  has  a  way  of  saying 
more  coolly  impertinent  things  to  ladies,  in  a  quiet  way, 
than  any  man  I  ever  came  across." 

Lenore  jumps  up  into  a  sitting  posture,  and  a  mischiev- 
ous, tormenting  look  flashes  into  her  laughing  gray  eyes. 

"  My  dear  Frederick,  how  you  excite  me  !  After  hear- 
ing nothing  but  how  charming  I  am,  from  you  and  such  as 
you,  how  refreshing  to  be  told  impertinent  plain  truths,  in 
a  quiet  way,  too — I  like  the  quiet  way,  there's  something 
shy  and  contraband  about  it — by  a  handsome  woman-hater 
— I'm  sure  he  must  be  handsome — in  a  reddish  beard  ! " 

"  He  is  a  man  of  any  thing  but  a  good  character,"  says 
Frederick,  lowering  his  voice,  as  if  the  subject  he  was 
broaching  were  one  not  fit  for  ladies'  ears ;  "  at  least,  he 
was  not  at  Oxford." 

Lenore  springs  to  her  feet. 

"Frederick!"  she  says,  impressively,  "you  have  de- 
cided me  j  I  wish  to  see  him  ! " 

"  I  don't  quite  see  how,  Lenore,"  say  I,  still  nibbling. 
"  Magnificently  as  you  always  affect  to  despise  the  shackles 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SATS. 


of  conventionality,  you  can  hardly  force  your  acquaintance 
upon  a  poor  man  who  has  distinctly  declined  it." 

Lenore's  two  hands  are  clasped  behind  her  back,  as  she 
stands  before  us.  Suddenly  she  stretches  out  one  of  them 
to  Frederick. 

"  I  don't  care,"  she  says,  with  a  little  emphatic  stamp ; 
"  I  bet  you  half  a  crown  that  before  nightfall  I  have  seen 
him  ! " 

"  You  know  I  never  bet,  Miss  Lenore." 

"  Oh  no  !  of  course  not,"  drawing  herself  up  very  stiffly, 
and  affecting  to  button  a  high,  double-breasted  waistcoat ; 
"  sacred  calling — injurious  example  to  flock,  etc.,  etc." 

"  Never  mind  her,"  say  I,  recurring  to  my  usual  formula 
of  soothing ;  "  don't  you  know  that  ever  since  that  un- 
lucky attack  of  croup  she  had  when  she  was  a  child,  when 
the  doctor  said  she  was  not  to  be  contradicted,  and  was  to 
do  whatever  she  liked,  that  Lenore  has  never  been  fit  to 
speak  to?" 

"  If  you  see  Le  Mesurier,"  says  Frederick,  not  heeding 
my  blandishments,  and  getting  rather  pink  with  exaspera- 
tion, "  it  will  be  against  his  will." 

"  Very  likely,  but  I  shall  see  him ! " 

"He  is  always  bored  by  the  society  of  respectable 
women  ;  he  never  makes  any  secret  of  it." 

"What  an  uncharitable  remark  for  a  clergyman  to 
make !  Every  amiable  trait  you  mention  heightens  my 
interest  in  him.  "Well,  I  shall  see  him." 

"  Good-bye,  Miss  Herrick,"  cries  Frederick,  vaulting  off 
his  stool,  which  at  parting  gives  one  last,  worst  valedic- 
tory squeak,  and  picking  up  his  soft  dumpling  hat — "  good- 
bye, Miss  Lenore ! " 

"  Good-bye,  sweetheart,  good-bye,"  replies  Lenore, 
rhetorically.  "  If  you  are  going  to  the  H6tel  de  la  Poste — 
do  not,  however,  put  yourself  out  of  the  way  on  my  ac- 


10  "  GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!  " 

count — but  if  you  are  going  there,  you  may  tell  our  mutual 
friend  to  expect  me  about  four." 

Two  minutes  later  the  front-door  closes  on  Mr.  West, 
and  I  hear  my  sister  running  down- stairs,  and  calling 
"  Stephanie,  Stephanie  !  "  at  the  top  of  her  fresh,  gay 
voice.  Stephanie  is  the  Breton  femme  de  chambre. 


CHAPTER  II. 

WHAT     THE     AUTHOE     SAYS. 

LENOEE'S  bed-room  :  over  the  papered  walls,  a  design 
of  blue  pea-flowers  and  giant  asters,  straggling  quaintly, 
yet  prettily :  a  small  bed  in  a  little  recess  curtained  off ;  a 
wash-hand  basin  as  big  as  a  broth-bowl,  and  a  ewer  as  big 
as  a  cream-jug ;  a  minute,  dim  looking-glass  hung  exactly 
where  it  is  impossible  to  get  any  thing  more  than  a  sugges- 
tion of  one's  own  face  in  it.  Before  this  glass  two  women 
are  standing,  Lenore  and  Stephanie ;  the  first  is  looking  at 
herself;  the  second  is  looking  at  the  first.  Lenore  is  no 
longer  an  English  lady;  she  is  a  Breton  peasant.  Her 
waist  is  girt  about  with  a  heavy  black  woollen  petticoat, 
gathered  into  so  many  great  folds  at  the  back  and  sides  as 
to  make  her  look  as  wide-hipped  as  the  weather-beaten 
countrywomen  beside  her  ;  a  gay  little  purple  shawl-hand- 
kerchief pinned  over  her  broad  chest.  Lenore  is  a  fine 
woman,  not  a  chicken-breasted  pretty  slip  of  a  girl ;  and 
on  her  head  (from  which  the  chignon  has  disappeared)  she 
is  struggling,  with  dubious  success,  to  arrange  a  head-dress 
similar  to  that  worn  by  Jier  companion. 

"  Oh,  que  mademoiselle  est  adroite  !  "  cries  the  latter, 
with  the  awful  mendacity  of  a  Frenchwoman,  when  any 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  11 

contest  between  truth  and  civility  is  concerned  ;  standing, 
with  her  hands  on  the  broad  hips  that  Nature  or  her  petti- 
coat-plaits have  given  her,  looking  on. 

"  Mademoiselle  is  not  adroite  at  all,"  cries  Lenore,  im- 
patiently, recklessly  mingling  together  the  Gothic  and 
Anglo-Saxon  tongues.  "  Au  contraire,  she  is  very  mala- 
droite  ;  coiffezmoi,  Stephanie,  je  vous  en  prie"  sitting 
down  on  a  chair,  and  letting  her  handsome  awkward  hands 
fall  idle  into  her  lap. 

A  Breton  cap  off  is  one  thing — it  is  merely  a  straight 
piece  of  well-stiffened  muslin  or  net ;  on,  it  is  quite  a  dif- 
ferent matter.  Stephanie  having,  for  a  space  of  about  two 
minutes,  arranged,  and  pinned,  and  tied,  bursts  into  a  cas- 
cade of  shrill  French  laughter. 

"  Mon  Dieu !  but  mademoiselle  has  a  droll  air  !  Made- 
moiselle will  pardon  her ;  but,  dame,  it  makes  one  pdmer 
derire!" 

Lenore  rises,  and  putting  her  face  close  to  the  dark  mir- 
ror, with  its  disfiguring  side-lights,  surveys  her  changed 
countenance  with  eager  solemnity.  A  little  border  of 
nut-brown  hair,  emerging  from  the  crisp  white  muslin ;  the 
broad,  stiff  lappets,  turned  up  and  back,  and  secured  with 
a  pin  on  the  crown,  making  a  huge  loop  at  each  side  of  the 
head.  Why  describe  what  every  one  knows — that  most 
piquant  of  head-gears  that  the  wise  Breton  peasantry  have 
not  yet  abandoned  in  favor  of  the  mock  lace  and  tawdry 
cheap  flowers  of  our  own  lower  orders  ? 

"  Je  suis  belle,  n'est  ce  pas  ?  "  she  asks,  a  little  doubt- 
fully, peeping  over  her  own  shoulder  at  the  grave  round 
beauty  of  her  anxious  peach-face. 

"  Oh,  mademoiselle  est  belle  a  ravir !  Qa  va  a  mer- 
veille  ;  on  ne  pe.ut  mieux,  etc.,  etc." 

"  But  my  hands  are  too  white,"  breaks  in  Lenore,  stem- 
ming the  torrent  of  encomium.  "  What  will  you  sell  me 


12  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

your  nice  red  fingers  for  half  an  hour  for  ?  Except  on  the 
stage,  too,  I  suppose  a  peasant-woman  does  not  wear 
rings  "  (slipping  them  off  on  the  wash-hand-stand — dress- 
ing-table there  is  none).  "  Well "  (with  a  parting  glance), 
"  I  think  I  am  unrecognizable,  am  I  not,  Stephanie  ?  I 
should  not  know  myself  if  I  met  myself  in  a  shop- window." 

As  she  passes  the  salon  door,  Lenore  peeps  in.  "  Do 
you  know  me,  Jemima?"  Jemima  gives  a  great  start,  and 
her  knitting  rolls  down  unheeded  on  the  parquet : 

"Why,  Lenore,  child,  what  have  you  been  doing  to 
yourself  ?  What  a  fright  you  look !  Where  are  you 
going?" 

"  To  the  Hotel  de  la  Poste,"  answers  Lenore,  shutting 
the  door  briskly,  and  running  down-stairs  very  quickly  to 
avoid  questions  and  remonstrances. 

It  is  but  a  five-minutes*  walk  from  Mdlle.  Leroux's  to  the 
Hotel  de  la  Poste ;  but  in  five  minutes  there  is  plenty  of 
time  for  courage  to  ooze  out  at  fingers'  ends.  Lenore's 
feet,  which  at  first,  despite  her  heavy  peasant-boots,  bore 
her  along  quickly  enough,  subside  into  a  very  lagging  walk. 
Her  bravery  is  considerably  cooled  by  the  time  she  reaches 
her  destination.  An  old  shabby  diligence  is  standing  in 
the  street;  on  a  bench,  beside  the  hotel-door,  three  men  in 
blue  blouses  are  sitting  drinking  cider ;  in  the  door-way,  a 
disengaged  garfon^  with  a  napkin  under  his  arm. 

"  Est  a  que  c'est  ici  1'Hotel  de  la  Poste  ?  "  asks  Lenore, 
almost  timidly,  her  question  being  rendered  rather  super- 
fluous by  the  fact  of  the  hotel  bearing  its  name  in  yard-long 
letters  on  its  front. 

"Oui,  madame.  Madame  est  Anglaise?"  with  a  sur- 
prised glance  at  her  dress. 

"  Yes,  madame  is  English.  Is  there  much  company 
here  now  ?  " 

"  Qa  commence,  madame." 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  13 

"Are  there  any  of  my  compatriots  staying  here  ?" 

"  There  are  several,  madame — a  crowd,  in  fact." 

"  Did  any  of  them  arrive  to-day  ?  " 

"Two  English  messieurs  arrived  by  the  voiture  from 
Caulnes.  If  madame  wishes,  she  can  see  their  mattes  qtfon 
va  monter"  pointing  inward  to  a  heap  of  portmanteaus 
and  hat-boxes. 

Madame  enters  and  inspects  them. 

"  And  where  is  this  monsieur  ?  "  she  asks,  pointing  with 
her  finger  to  a  small  and  battered  portmanteau,  bearing 
the  name  of  "  Paul  le  Mesurier,  Esq.,"  in  large  white  let- 
ters upon  it. 

"  That  monsieur  is  in  the  salle  /  he  has  commanded  some 
cognac  and  a  siphon." 

As  he  speaks  a  second  gargon  emerges  from  the  unseen, 
bearing  a  small  tray  with  the  identical  refreshments  indi- 
cated upon  it.  By  a  sudden  impulse  Lenore  runs  forward 
to  meet  him. 

"  Would  it  be  permitted,"  she  asks,  coloring  furiously, 
"  for  her  to  take  that  into  the  salle  ?  " 

"  Mais  oui,  madame,  si  c.a  vous  convient." 

They  both  stare  at  her ;  one  laughs.  If  she  had  been 
by  herself  now,  at  this  last  moment,  she  would  have  set 
down  the  tray  and  fled ;  but  retreat  is  cut  off  by  the  first 
gargon  politely  throwing  open  the  salle-door.  With  trem- 
bling knees  and  a  galloping  heart,  Miss  Lenore  enters. 

A  long  room  and  a  long  table  laid  for  any  number  of 
people ;  bottles  of  vin  ordinaire,  napkins,  covered  dishes 
full  of  emptiness,  tooth-pick  stands,  pots  of  mangy  hydran- 
geas and  geraniums  down  the  middle ;  a  little  clergyman 
with  falling  shoulders  that  would  not  have  disgraced  a 
woman  or  a  champagne-bottle — Frederick,  in  fact — study- 
ing an  Indicateur  in  one  of  the  windows.  Another  gentle- 
man at  the  table,  with  the  back  of  his  head  and  a  suspicion 


14  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

of  lion-colored  beard  emerging  from  the  sheets  of  Gali- 
gnani. 

As  noiselessly  as  her  great  clodhopping  boots  will  per- 
mit, Miss  Herrick  approaches  the  latter  and  deposits  his 
cognac  at  his  elbow.  But  in  so  doing  her  hand  trembles 
so  much  that  she  knocks  down  a  fork  and  spoon,  which  fall 
with  a  clink  on  the  floor.  As  she  stoops  to  pick  them  up, 
and  as  he  lifts  his  eyes,  rather  irritated  at  the  noise,  their 
glances  meet.  In  Lenore's  there  is  a  mixture  of  expres- 
sions :  shame,  defiance,  and,  above  all,  and  before  all,  disap- 
pointment ;  for,  after  all,  this  interesting,  woman-hating  roue 
is  not  handsome ;  by  no  one  but  the  mother  who  bore  him 
could  he  ever  have  been  thought  even  good-looking.  In 
the  stranger's  look  there  is  nothing  but  extreme  surprise — 
nay,  astonishment.  Glad,  despite  herself,  to  have  got  off 
so  cheaply,  Lenore  is  beating  a  hasty  retreat,  when  Le 
Mesurier's  voice  overtakes  her. 

"  I  say  !  Marie !  Julie !  Marion  !  Hi !  What  the  deuce 
is  the  French  for  hi?  Call  her  back,  West.  I  have  tried 
all  the  names  I  know ;  they  are  generally  all  Maries,  but 
she  won't  answer  to  that." 

"  Do  you  want  any  thing  ?  "  asks  Frederick,  looking  up 
innocently  from  his  Indicateur  with  that  beamingly-be- 
nevolent look  that  spectacles  always  give. 

But  his  friend,  excited  by  the  pursuit  of  a  pretty  face, 
has  precipitated  himself  toward  the  door,  which  is  left  ajar, 
and,  passing  quickly  through  it,  finds  himself  face  to  face 
with  the  object  of  his  search,  who,  not  having  had  presence 
of  mind  to  take  refuge  in  flight,  is  standing  there  with  her 
empty  tray — red,  guilty,  and  beautiful. 

"  West,  West !  What's  the  French  for  *  What  is  your 
name  ? '  Do  they  grow  them  like  this  here  ?  Because,  if 
so,  we  had  better  import  a  few.  Comment  vous  appellez- 
vous,  ma  ch^re  f  "  trying  to  take  her  hand. 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SATS.  15 

"What  do  you  mean?"  cries  the  girl,  in  very  good 
English,  snatching  it  away,  totally  forgetting  her  assumed 
character,  and  looking  daggers  at  the  insolent  wretch  who 
had  dared  to  call  her  "  ma  chere" 

"Are  you  English?"  asks  Le  Mesurier,  aghast,  recoil- 
ing a  step  or  two,  and  his  mouth  opening  in  horror  as  the 
thought  of  the  admiring  familiarities  he  has  just  been  giv- 
ing utterance  to  darts  across  his  brain. 

At  the  sound — hardly  credited — of  a  too  well-known 
voice,  Mr.  West  has  thrown  down  his  Indicateur,  and 
comes  running  to  the  scene  of  action. 

"MissLenore!" 

She  looks  up  at  him — a  dare-devil  light  in  her  eyes — 
resolute,  now  that  the  denouement  has  come,  to  brave  it 
out. 

"  Did  monsieur  call  ?  " 

"  Miss  Lenore,  are  you  mad?  " 

She  stretches  out  her  hand  to  him : 

"  Who  was  right  ?  I  have  won  my  half  crown ;  pay  it 
me." 

Le  Mesurier  turns  from  one  to  the  other  in  blank  aston- 
ishment : 

"  I  say,  West,  what  is  it  all  about ;  what  is  the  joke  ?  " 

"  You  had  better  ask  this  lady." 

"  There  is  no  joke,  none,"  says  the  girl,  looking  at  him 
archly,  but  growing  crimson.  "  I  came  here  to  see  you. 
I  put  on  this  dress  to  avoid  being  recognized;  I  have 
failed,  that  is  all." 

"  To  see  me !  I  am  sure  I  am  immensely  nattered  " 
(looking  excessively  surprised,  and  biting  his  lips  hard  to 
repress  a  broad  smile) ;  "  but  are  you  sure  that  you  are  not 
mistaking  me  for  some  one  else  ?  " 

"  It  was  not  that  I  cared  in  the  least  to  see  you,"  she 
says,  frowning,  and  tears  of  shame  rushing  to  her  eyes. 


16  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  Of  course  not ;  of  course  not !  "  bowing. 

"  But  when  I  say  that  I  will  do  a  thing,  however  fool- 
ish, I  always  do  it." 

"An  excellent  rule  to  go  through,  life  with,"  replies 
he,  gravely,  still  fighting  with  a  laugh ;  "  but  there  are 
difficulties  sometimes  in  the  way  of  putting  it  into  practice, 
are  there  not  ?  " 

"  Miss  Lenore,  Miss  Lenore,"  says  Frederick,  the  veins 
in  his  forehead  swelling,  and  all  his  little  pink  features 
working  with  nervous  vexation,  "  will  you  allow  me  to  see 
you  home  ?  If  we  walk  very  fast — it  is  not  an  hour  when 
there  are  many  people  about — perhaps  you  will  not  be 
recognized." 

"  I  don't  in  the  least  care  if  I  am  recognized,"  answers 
Lenore,  stoutly.  "  I  have  done  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of." 

As  she  passes  out,  Le  Mesurier  holds  open  the  door 
and  bows  formally  and  solemnly ;  and  through  the  Place 
Duguesclin  and  the  Foss6  Miss  Herrick  carries  the  recol- 
lection of  a  rather  ugly  tanned  face,  in  which  she  conjec- 
tures the  contempt  that  does  not  appear — carries  away 
with  her  also  the  pleasant  consciousness  of  having  made  an 
utter  and  unladylike  fool  of  herself,  without  the  poor  conso- 
lation of  having  done  it  amusingly. 

"  '  Girl  of  the  Period  ! '  "  says  Paul  to  himself,  thrust- 
ing his  hands  into  his  coat-pockets  as  he  watches  her  de- 
parture through  the  lowered  Venetian  blinds  ;  "  after  all, 
the  Saturday  does  not  overcolor ;  from  all  such,  '  Good 
Lord  deliver  us  ! '  " 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  17 

CHAPTER  III. 

WHAT     JEMIMA     SAYS. 

AT  our  pension  we  dine  at  six ;  it  is  a  small  and  select 
establishment;  at  present  it  contains  only  two  fami- 
lies :  la  famille  Lange,  and  la  famille  Hhreeck.  We  are 
lafamille  Erreeck.  La  famille  Lange  is  French,  as  may 
be  imagined  from  its  name.  It  consists  of  a  mother,  son, 
and  daughter.  The  mother  is  a  handsome,  black-haired 
widow,  mourning  jovially  for  the  four-months'-dead  M. 
Lange,  in  uncovered  head  and  huge  jet  rosary.  Mdlle. 
Peroline  deplores  her  papa,  in  white  muslin,  lilac  ribbons, 
and  a  wonderful  mop  of  little  frizzled  curls  and  rolls.  M. 
Ce"sar  is  a  youth  with  an  eye-glass,  which  is  forever  drop- 
ping out  of  his  right  eye — a  youth  tall  of  stature,  and 
spotted  like  the  pard.  We  are  all  dining  together  as  soci- 
ably as  their  total  ignorance  of  our  tongue,  and  our  very 
partial  acquaintance  with  theirs,  will  permit.  Through  the 
open  window,  in  the  still  yellow  evening,  we  hear  plainly 
the  clump  of  sabots  in  the  place  ;  the  voices,  as  often  as  not 
English  or  Irish — for  Dinan,  as  is  well  known,  swarms  with 
both — of  the  passers-by. 

There  are  but  few  disadvantageous  circumstances  in  this 
world  that  have  not  also  their  advantageous  side  ;  and  the 
fact  of  our  being  the  only  people  in  the  house  that  under- 
stand the  English  tongue,  enables  my  sister  and  me  to  im- 
part our  opinions  concerning  the  company  and  the  viands 
to  each  other  with  a  freedom  which,  to  a  stranger  entering 
unacquainted  with  the  posture  of  affairs,  would  seem  start- 
lingly  candid. 

"  I  wish  they  would  let  us  have  our  potatoes  with  our 
biftecfc,  as  they  call  it,  instead  of  afterward  and  separate, 


18  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

as  a  side-dish,"  say  I,  grumblingly,  being  hopelessly  John- 
Bullish  in  my  culinary  tastes. 

"  Look  at  this  nasty  fellow !  "  rejoins  Lenore,  with  a  dis- 
gusted intonation,  directing  my  attention  to  her  neighbor, 
M.  Ce"sar,  who,  with  his  napkin  tucked  under  his  chin,  is 
holding  the  bone  of  his  mutton-cutlet  in  his  hand,  and 
gnawing  it.  "  Do  you  suppose,  Mima,  that  French  gentle- 
men worry  their  food  in  such  a  cannibalish  fashion,  or  is  it 
a  manner  and  custom  confined  to  bourgeois  like  these  ?  " 

My  reply  is  strangled  in  its  birth  by  the  unconscious 
Madame  Lange,  who,  interrupting  for  a  moment  her  succu- 
lent employment  of  chasing  the  gravy  round  her  tilted 
plate  with  a  crust,  inquires,  with  some  volubility,  whether 
mademoiselle  has  made  a  promenade  to-day  ?  Doubtlessly 
mademoiselle  has  already  visited  Fontaine  des  Eaux,  and 
Lehon,  and  the  Saint-Esprit — an  object,  in  fact,  truly  re- 
markable? 

My  French  never  was  my  strong  point,  even  in  school- 
days ;  and  the  waste  of  many  immense  years  that  have 
elapsed  since  my  education  was  completed,  has  not  tended 
to  make  it  stronger.  I  answer,  stoutly : 

"  Non  —  pas  —  aujourdhui  —  tres  —  chaud ; "  and  look 
piteously  across  to  my  junior  for  succor.  But  Lenore  is 
still  disdainfully  eying  the  innocent  M.  Ce"sar  and  his  mut- 
ton-bone. 

"  Mademoiselle  is  right ;  there  has  been  a  chdleur  epoic- 
vantdble  /  in  truth,  she  herself  has  been  tres  souffrante  all 
day ;  she  has  had  mal  au  cceur.  My  children,  however, 
C6sar  and  Pe"roline,  have  been  to  play  at  the  croquet,  with 
the  Demoiselles  Smeet  and  the  Demoiselles  Ammeelton ; 
C<§sar  loves  the  croquet ;  is  it  not  so,  my  friend  ?  " 

"  Mais  oui,  maman  ! " 

I  try  to  say  in  French  that  croquet  is  the  best  game 
that  ever  was  invented  for  bringing  the  two  sexes  together 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  19 

trite  and  pedantic  remark  at  best — and,  failing  to  make 
myself  understood,  relapse  into  silence,  feeling  rather 
small,  and  resolving  henceforth  for  evermore  to  cleave  to 
the  vulgar  tongue.  Lenore  laughs  malignantly,  but  does 
not  help  me.  M.  Cesar,  having  eaten  a  huge  strawberry- 
mash,  and  more  white-heart  cherries  than  the  rest  of  the 
company  put  together,  pushes  back  his  chair,  and  requests 
to  be  permitted  to  retire  to  make  his  toilet  for  a  prome- 
nade d  ckeval. 

On  the  occasion  of  M.  Cesar's  making  a  promenade  d 
cheval,  we  are  all  expected  to  group  ourselves  at  the  salon 
windows  to  watch  him,  as,  in  lavender  gloves  and  cream- 
colored  trousers,  he  caracoles  a  little,  a  Very  little — for  M. 
Cesar  knows  that  discretion  is  the  better  part  of  valor — 
under  our  admiring  eyes.  His  mamma,  meanwhile,  is  wont 
to  retire  into  a  corner  of  the  room,  cover  her  face  with  her 
handkerchief,  and  cry. 

As  he  passes  by  her  now,  she  catches  his  hand :  "  Great 
Heaven !  Cesar,  take  care  that  that  wicked  animal  does 
not  overturn  thee ! " 

"  Fear  not,  mamma/'  replies  C£sar,  doughtily.  "  I  will 
be  careful." 

"  Imagine  an  Englishman  contemplating  the  possibility 
of  parting  company  with  his  horse,  while  ambling  along 
the  king's  highway  !  "  says  Lenore,  scornfully.  "  Hush  ! " 
(with  heightened  color  and  brightened  eyes) — "  is  not  that 
the  hall-door  bell?" 

She  runs  to  the  window  and  looks  out. 

<c  It  is  Frederick,  of  course,  isn't  it  ?  "  I  ask,  finishing 
my  last  cherry. 

"Yes." 

"Anybody  with  him?" 

"  Anybody  with  him !  of  course  not !  Who  should 
there  be  ?  "  replies  my  sister  tartly,  from  which,  being  a 


20  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

person  of  very  superior  intelligence,  I  concluded  that 
Lenore  expected  somebody.  We  go  up  to  the  salon  to  re- 
ceive our  guest,  and  Lenore,  contrary  to  her  usual  custom, 
runs  to  meet  him  with  outstretched  hand,  and  without  any 
of  her  usual  insults  to  his  hair,  his  gait,  or  his  physique 
generally. 

"  Well,  Frederick ! "  she  cries,  eagerly,  and,  as  it  seems 
to  me,  expectantly. 

"  Well,  Miss  Lenore  !  "  replies  Frederick,  growing 
purple  to  the  ears,  as  he  always  does,  when  his  idol  flings 
him  a  brace  of  careless  words. 

"  Don't  say  *  Well,  Miss  Lenore  ! '  "  retorts  my  sister, 
angrily ;  "  it  does  irritate  one  so.  Have  you  nothing  to 
say  ? — nothing  to  tell  me  ?  " 

"  Nothing  to  tell  you  ?  "  echoes  Frederick,  bewildered, 
and  again  lapsing  into  his  former  offence.  "  Why,  it  is 
such  a  very  short  time  since  we  parted,  that  it  is  not  likely 
I  can  have  very  much  to  relate." 

Lenore  turns  away  with  an  ill-tempered  movement  of 
head  and  shoulder,  and,  walking  to  the  window,  looks 
out.  M.  C6sar  is  kissing  his  lavender  gloves  repeatedly. 
Madame  Lange  is  screaming  out  shrill  cautions  to  her  son 
not  to  be  too  audacious.  Mdlle.  Leroux — an  adorable  old 
creature,  in  yellow  cap  and  luxuriant  gray  beard — is  wav- 
ing her  pocket-handkerchief,  and  crying,  "  Au  revoir !  M. 
Cesar,  au  revoir ! "  Lenore  does  not  appear  to  perceive 
any  of  them. 

"  I  suppose,"  says  Mr.  West,  addressing  me,  but  glan- 
cing timidly  toward  the  window.  "  that  you  have  heard  of 
Miss  Lenore's — adventure  ?  I  am  really  in  hopes  that  we 
shall  be  able  to  keep  it  quite  quiet — quite  quiet.  Le 
Mesurier  fortunately  knows  no  one  here,  and  we  luckily 
met  no  one  but  Mr.  Stevens  on  our  way  home,  and  I  don't 
think  he  saw  us." 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  21 

"  If  lie  did  see  us,"  says  my  sister,  turning  round  her 
face  again,  ornamented  with  a  rather  grim  smile,  "  I  would 
not  give  much  for  your  character  in  Dinan  by  to-morrow, 
Frederick.  You  will  be  affiche  all  over  the  town  as  having 
been  parading  about,  in  broad  daylight,  arm-in-arm  with  a 
bonne.  I  asked  you  to  give  me  your  arm  on  purpose ;  do 
you  know,  Mima  "  (beginning  to  laugh),  "  we  came  tod- 
dling along  so  affectionately,  like  a  pair  of  cits  out  on  a 
Sunday  afternoon  ?  " 

"  You  forget  that  I  saw  you  coming  through  the  Porte," 
reply  I,  with  severity ;  "  and  indeed,  Lenore,  when  next 
you  take  it  into  your  head  to  play  a  practical  joke,  I  sin- 
cerely hope  that  it  may  be  a  more  amusing  and  less  unlady- 
like one." 

"  Why  did  you  tell  us  your  friend  was  handsome  ? " 
asks  Lenore,  abruptly,  without  paying  the  slightest  atten- 
tion to  me. 

"  I  did  not  say  so,  Miss  Leonora ;  you  said  so  yourself ! " 

" I said  so  myself  7  Why,  how  could  I?  I  had  seen 
nothing  but  the  back  of  his  neck." 

"  You  said  you  were  sure  he  must  be  handsome." 

"  Well,  the  wisest  of  us  are  liable  to  error,"  replies  my 
sister,  leaning  her  folded  arms  on  the  back  of  my  chair,  and 
gazing  calmly  over  my  head  at  Mr.  West.  "  In  that  case 
I  certainly  erred  egregiously ;  he  is  hideous,  '  laid  a  faire 
peur,'  as  Mdlle.  Peroline  humorously  remarked  of  you  the 
other  day." 

"  In  that  case,  Miss  Leonora,"  replies  Frederick,  worked 
up  into  something  like  spirit,  as  I  am  glad  to  perceive,  by 
her  rudeness,  "  there  does  not  seem  to  be  very  much  love 
lost  between  you  ! " 

Lenore  blushes  angrily.  "  Has  he  been  expressing  his 
disapprobation  of  me  to  you  ? "  she  asks  quickly ;  "  is  it 
the  last  new  thing  in  manners  to  abuse  people  to  their 


22  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

most  intimate  friends  ?  If  so,  commend  me  to  the  manner- 
less sans-culottes" 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  get  into  the  habit,  Lenore,  of 
loading  your  conversation  with  French  phrases  ;  it  reminds 
me  so  much  of  the  Journal  des  Demoiselles" 

This  I  say  in  the  weak  effort  to  turn  the  conversation 
into  a  new  channel ;  meanwhile  I  endeavor  to  signal  "  dan- 
ger ! "  to  Mr.  West,  cough,  and  wave  the  white  flag ;  but, 
as  he  is  not  looking  at  or  thinking  of  me,  it  is  all  in  vain. 

"I  don't  think  he  had  any  idea  that  I  was  so  much 
atta — ,  so  intimate,  I  mean,  with  you  and  Miss  Jemima,  as 
I  am,"  replies  Frederick,  earnestly.  "  Indeed,  Miss  Lenore, 
I  must  do  him  that  justice." 

"  Who  cares  whether  he  has  justice  done  him  or  not  ?  " 
cries  Lenore,  impatiently  ;  "  what  did  he  say  ?  what  did  he 
say  ?  " 

"  It  really  would  not  at  all  amuse  you,  Miss  Lenore  " 
(nervously  kneading  his  soft  hat)  ;  "  on  the  contrary,  I  am 
afraid  it  would  make  you  very  angry." 

"You  may  as  well  tell  me  at  once,"  says  my  sister, 
composedly  sitting  down  on  an  arm-chair  and  folding  her 
hands  in  her  lap,  "  because  you  shall  never  leave  this  room 
alive,  if  you  don't !  " 

"  Well,  since  you  insist  upon  it — please,  Miss  Jemima  " 
(turning  piteously  to  me),  "  please,  Miss  Jemima,  bear  wit- 
ness that  it  is  not  my  fault — that  Miss  Lenore  has  brought 
it  on  herself — he  said — I  dare  say  he  did  not  mean  it — that 
— that — he  could  not  have  believed  that  any  English  lady 
could  have  lowered  herself  to  such  an  extent  as  to  do  such 
a  thing ! " 

The  blush  on  Lenore's  face  grows  painful — spreads  even 
to  her  soft,  creamy  throat. 

"  Oh,  indeed !     Any  thing  more  ?  " 

"  He  said,"  pursues  Frederick,  deceived  by  the  appar- 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  23 

ent  quietness  with  which  his  hearer  takes  the  unflattering 
comments  made  upon  her,  "  that  if  he  had  ever  caught  his 
sister  playing  such  a  trick  he  would  never  have  spoken  to 
her  again  as  long  as  he  lived." 

"  Oh,  indeed  !  what  a  loss  for  her  !     Any  thing  more  ?  " 

"  He  said  he  did  not  doubt  that  you  were  very  good 
fun,  if  one  went  in  for  that  sort  of  thing,  but  that  you  were 
not  his  style." 

"  Not  his  style !  am  I  not  ?  "  cries  Lenore,  rising  sud- 
denly from  her  chair,  quivering  from  head  to  foot  with  pas- 
sion ;  "  and  what  is  his  style,  pray  ?  Whatever  it  is,  thank 
Heaven  that  I  am  not  like  it !  Frederick,  I  wonder  that 
you  are  not  ashamed  to  insult  me  by  repeating  such 
speeches. —  Jemima"  (turning  eagerly  to  me),  "you  can 
have  no  conception  how  ugly  he  is  ;  I  only  wish  you  could 
see  him.  Little  eyes  like  a  pig's,  and  a  huge  nose,  and 
such  a  villanous  expression !  What  a  fool  I  am  to  care 
what  he  says !  I  don't  care — it  amuses  me  immensely — 
ha,  ha !  Wretch  !  I  wish  he  was  dead  ! " 

And  to  prove  how  little  she  cares,  she  bursts  into  a 
tempest  of  tears,  rushes  out  of  the  room,  and  bangs  the 
guiltless  door  behind  her. 

"  There,  Mr.  West,"  say  I,  not  without  a  certain  sombre 
triumph,  "  perhaps  you  will  pay  some  attention  to  me  next 
time."  And  I  rise  with  dignity,  and,  shaking  out  my 
brown-holland  dress,  prepare  to  follow  and  comfort  my 
afflicted  relative.  As  I  reach  the  door  I  canon  against 
Madame  Lange. 

"  Peroline,  P£roline !  where  art  thou,  dear  friend  ? 
come  and  try  thy  new  body. — Pardon,  mademoiselle,  a 
thousand  pardons ! " 


24  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

CHAPTER  IV. 

WHAT   LESTORE    SAYS. 

"  To  the  day  of  my  death  I  shall  always  hate  Stephanie," 
says  Lenore,  lamentably,  sitting  leaning  her  elbows  on  the 
little  round  table  in  the  middle  of  her  bedroom,  having 
broken  off  suddenly  in  the  writing  of  a  letter,  to  thrust 
her  hands  in  among  her  crisp,  untidy  hair,  and  give  way  to 
a  fit  of  angry  despondence ;  "  if  I  had  not  seen  her  going 
clacking  about  the  house  in  that  linsey  petticoat  and  that 
vile  cap  "  (nodding  her  head  to  where  the  unlucky  garments 
are  lying  on  her  bed),  "  it  never  would  have  entered  my 
head  to  make  a  mountebank  of  myself." 

"  If  I  were  you,"  I  replied  severely,  in  answer  to  this 
jeremiad,  "  I  should  buy  the  whole  suit  from  her,  lay  it  up 
by  me,  and  look  at  it  whenever  I  next  felt  inclined  to  make 
a  fool  of  myself." 

"  It  would  not  do  badly  for  a  fancy  ball,"  says  Lenore, 
with  a  sudden  change  of  tone,  from  the  lachrymose  to  the 
lively,  rising  briskly  from  her  chair,  and  walking  toward 
the  bed ;  "  much  more  piquant  than  the  everlasting  Fires 
and  Waters,  Nights  and  Days,  Louis  Quartorzes,  and  Marie 
Stuarts,  that  one  is  so  sick  of ;  I  never  yet  knew  a  very 
ugly  woman  go  to  a  fancy  ball  that  she  did  not  go  as  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots."  An  austere  silence  on  my  part.  "I 
have  a  good  mind  to  try  "  (with  considerable  cheerfulness 
of  tone).  "I  must  get  Stephanie  to  give  me  lessons  in 
the  art  of  arranging  the  cap.  Let  me  see ;  how  did  it  go  ? 
It  looked  quite  simple."  Still,  silence  on  my  part.  "  One 
thing  is  certain,  one  would  be  quite  unique ;  one  would  not 
run  the  risk  of  meeting  one's  double." 

"  I   should  not  have  thought,"  say  I,  stiffly,  unwilling 


WHAT  LENOEE  SAYS.  25 

that  the  wholesome  lesson  my  sister  has  learned  should  so 
soon  be  forgotten  ;  "  I  should  not  have  thought  that  your 
associations  with  that  costume  were  so  pleasant  that  you 
would  be  in  any  hurry  to  put  it  on  again." 

She  covers  her  face  with  her  hands :  "  How  brutal 
of  you  to  remind  me  of  it,  just  when  I  had  succeeded  in 
directing  my  thoughts  from  it  for  a  moment !  "  I  say  noth- 
ing. "  You  know,  Jemima,  I  had  meant  it  to  be  just  a 
spirited  little  freak ;  and  it  all  fell  so  flat,  so  tame.  Pah  ! 
it  is  a  thing  that  one  could  not  think  of  without  blushing, 
if  one  were  in  a  dark  room  by  one's  self,  with  the  shutters 
shut," 

"  I  should  think  not." 

"  Shall  I  ever  forget,"  cried  Leuore,  drawing  away  her 
hands  from  her  crimson  face,  and  clasping  them  together — 
"  shall  I  ever  forget  my  feelings,  as  Frederick  and  I 
sneaked  out  together,  and  lie,  held  open  the  door  so  cere- 
moniously for  us  ?  If  he  had  had  any  good  feeling  he 
would  have  laughed,  would  not  he,  Mima  ?  If  he  had  not 
been  a  monster,  he  would  have  tried  to  look  as  if  he 
thought  it  a  good  joke,  but  he  did  not ;  he  was  as  grave — 
as  grave  as  I  am  now,  which  is  putting  it  as  strongly  as  I 
possibly  can." 

"Frederick  told  you  that  he  hated  respectable  women," 
say  I,  gravely ;  "  so  that  his  want  of  cordiality  was,  at 
least,  an  indirect  compliment,"  She  stands  with  her  eyes 
moodily  downcast,  but  does  not  answer.  "  He  evidently 
thought  you  respectable,"  I  said,  cheerfully — "  evidently  ; 
that,'  at  least,  is  a  comfort,  is  not  it  ?  I  don't  see  how  he 
found  it  out ;  it  must  have  been  intuition." 

Neither  does  this  thrust  move  her  to  speech.  I  begin  a 
fresh  sentence.  "  Frederick  said — " 

"  Frederick  ?  "  interrupts.  Lenore,  impatiently  stamping, 
and  relieved  at  having  found  another  object  besides  herself 
2 


26  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

to  vent  her  rage  on.  "  Little  thought !  If  he  had  never 
been  born,  or  if  he  had  not  been  there,  or  if  he  had  had 
sense  enough  to  hold  his  tongue,  it  would  have  all  gone 
off  well  enough,  as  I  meant  it :  I  should  have  seen  Mr. 
Le  Mesurier — not,  Heaven  knows  "  (with  great  contempt), 
"  that  he  is  the  least  worth  seeing — and  lie, — "  She  pauses. 

"  Well,  what  about  him  ?  " 

She  draws  in  her  breath,  and  her  eyes  flash  spitefully : 
"  If  a  wish  could  have  killed  him  at  that  moment,  as  he 
stood  there  bowing  and  sneering,  and  saying  that  he  was 
afraid  there  must  be  some  mistake — he  knew  as  well  as  I 
do  that  there  was  no  mistake — he  would  have  been  as 
dead  as  a  door-nail  now  ! "  She  stops,  breathes  hard,  and 
clinches,  and  again  unclinches,  her  hand.  "  '  I'm  sure  I'm 
immensely  flattered.  What  is  the  joke  next  ?  An  excel- 
lent plan,  no  doubt.' " 

I  hear  her  muttering  over  to  herself  these,  as  I  conjec- 
ture, fragmentary  speeches  of  her  new  acquaintance,  while 
her  cheeks  grow  ever  more  and  more  hotly  red. 

"  Console  yourself,"  I  say,  with  vicarious  philosophy. 
"  I  imagine  that  he  did  not  hear  your  name ;  you  were  so 
thoroughly  disguised  by  your  dress  that  he  probably  would 
not  recognize  you  if  he  met  you ;  and  the  world  is  wide — 
we  shall  hardly  be  so  unlucky  as  to  happen  upon  him 
again." 

"  Do  you  think  not  ?  "  answers  Lenore,  with  hardly  so 
much  exhilaration  of  tone  as  might  have  been  expected. 
"  I  don't  know  about  that.  Brittany  is  not  so  very  large, 
and  everybody  goes  to  see  the  same  places.  His  route 
will  be  pretty  sure  to  be  the  same  as  ours — Morlaix,  Quim- 
per,  Avray." 

<(  We  must  hope  to  be  either  a  few  days  before  or  a 
few  days  behind  him  at  each  place.  There  is  no  use  in 
anticipating  evils."  A  rather  demurring  silence.  "Our 


WHAT  LENOEE  8 ATS.  27 

great  difficulty,"  I  continue,  cheerfully,  "  will  be  to  avoid 
him  as  long  as  he  remains  here;  but  we  must  find  out 
from  Frederick  every  day  in  which  direction  he  means  to 
walk  or  drive,  and  take  care  to  walk  or  drive  in  the  oppo- 
site one." 

"  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind ! "  cries  Lenore,  quickly. 
"  You  may  please  yourself.  One's  life  would  not  be  worth 
having  if  it  were  spent  in  dodging  a  person  about  a  tiny 
place  like  this.  As  to  meeting  or  not  meeting,  we  must 
trust  to  chance ;  and,  for  my  part,  I  should  rather  enjoy  it 
than  otherwise." 

"  In  that  case,"  reply  I,  sarcastically,  "  I  would  call 
again  at  the  Hotel  de  la  Poste.  Next  time  I  would  go  as 
a  garc,on  ;  it  would  be  still  more  spirited." 

"  He  could  not  have  looked  more  scandalized  than  he 
did  even  if  I  had,"  replies  Lenore,  bursting  into  a  short 
vexed  laugh.  "  After  all " — brightening  up  a  little — 
"  when  I  think  of  the  things  I  might  have  done,  and  did 
not,  the  enormity  of  the  thing  I  did  dwindles  surprisingly." 
I  shake  my  head  dissentingly.  "  I  only  wish  I  could  have 
the  chance  of  letting  him  know  how  direly  disappointed  I 
was  in  him,"  says  Lenore,  viciously.  "  I  wonder  shall  I 
ever  ?  " 

"  I  sincerely  hope  not." 

"  If  I  do,  you  may  be  sure  I  will  not  lose  it,"  she  says, 
with  an  angry  emphasis.  "I  know  nothing  that  would 
give  me  such  pure,  such  lively  pleasure." 

This  is  on  the  day  following  Lenore's  escapade.  In 
the  evening,  old  Mdlle.  Leroux  gives  a  little  party,  accord- 
ing to  her  lights.  When  we  enter  the  salon,  about  half- 
past  seven,  we  find  most  of  the  company  already  assembled. 
The  piano  is  open  (it  is  generally  locked),  and  Mdlle.  P6ro- 
line,  with  her  hair  newly  frizzed,  and  her  muslin  flounces 
mightily  goffered,  is  executing  a  surprising  fantasia,  where- 


28  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

in  the  air  loses  itself  perpetually  in  variations  that  seem  to 
have  nothing  to  say  to  it,  and  reappears  anon,  when  least 
expected,  like  a  train  out  of  the  Box  Tunnel.  Mdlle.  Le- 
roux,  in  a  fresh  burst  of  yellow  ribbons,  is  in  the  act  of 
shutting  the  one  open  window.  A  youth  with  an  unearth- 
ly-deep voice,  in  bright  purple  kid  gloves,  and  a  vivid-green 
tie,  is  turning  over  the  leaves  for  P6roline.  Round  the 
table  are  sitting  five  young  girls,  sisters — English,  certain- 
ly ;  insolvent,  probably.  They  are  of  the  usual  type  of 
British  dowdy — red  cheeks,  hearty  laughs,  big  flat  waists. 
Among  them — Jack  among  the  Maids — sits  M.  Cesar ;  his 
eye-glass  is  in  his  eye,  and  a  piece  of  tapestry-work  in  his 
hand.  An  English  couple,  and  a  French  gentleman  in 
drab  thread  gloves,  whose  name  never  transpires,  complete 
the  gathering.  .Lenore,  whom  I  have  had  great  difficulty 
in  inducing  to  appear  at  all — Lenore,  who,  if  she  is  in  a 
company  not  congenial  to  her,  or  if  she  has  nothing  to  say, 
maintains  that  absolute  silence  which  is  unluckily  tabooed 
in  society — throws  herself,  after  the  first  salutations  and 
presentations  have  been  gone  through,  into  a  corner  of  the 
sofa,  and  keeps  her  head  bent  directly  over  her  work.  I 
draw  a  chair  next  to  M.  C6sar  and  the  moderator  lamp,  and 
ask  him  halting  and  ungrammatical  French  questions  about 
his  Berlin  wools.  The  fantasia  comes  to  an  end. 

"Are  you  fond  of  music,  M.  C£sar?"  I  ask,  having 
exhausted  the  subject  of  the  wools. 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle ;  I  love  it  passionately." 

"  Do  you  play  or  sing  yourself  ?  " 

"  No,  mademoiselle ;  I  draw." 

"  Ce'sar  sketches  from  the  Nature,"  says  his  mother, 
coming  up,  laying  her  fat  white  hands  on  her  son's  shoul- 
ders, and  smiling  in  her  plump  debonnaire  widowhood  over 
his  head. — "  My  child,  show  to  Mdlle.  Erreech  that  pretty 


WHAT  LENOEE  SAYS.  29 

little  drawing  that  thou  madest  yesterday  when  thou  went- 
est  on  horseback  with  thy  uncle  to  Corseul." 

"  But,  mamma,  it  is  but  a  bagatelle,"  replies  C£sar,  with 
proud  humility.  His  modesty  being  overcome,  the  sketch- 
book is  produced. 

"  Is  it  not  of  a  surprising  resemblance  ?  "  asks  his  pa- 
rent, proudly  smiling,  and  leaning  forward  in  order  to  feast 
her  eyes. 

"  Monsieur  has  not  yet  perhaps  quite  finished  it,"  I  say, 
hardly  able  to  contain  my  laughter,  as  I  examine,  with  ad- 
miring gravity,  the  rolling  trees,  little  wriggling  black 
shades,  and  houses  utterly  out  of  the  perpendicular.  M. 
Cesar's  mode  of  treating  foliage  is  singularly  wormy.  Then, 
seeing  that  I  have  not  said  what  was  expected  of  me,  I 
added,  "  A  thousand  thanks,  monsieur !  It  is,  indeed,  a 
charming  talent ! " 

"  But  it  is  nothing ! "  rejoins  C6sar,  with  a  bow  and 
deprecatory  wave  of  the  hand. 

At  this  moment  Stephanie  enters,  bearing  a  tray,  and 
thereon  weak  tea  and  sponge-cakes,  supposed  to  be  d 
VAnglaise.  As  she  hands  these  delicacies  to  me,  she  stoops 
over  me,  and  says,  in  a  confidential  half-whisper : 

"  There  are  two  messieurs  down  stairs,  come  to  make  a 
visit  to  mademoiselle." 

"  Two  messieurs ! "  cry  I,  surprised ;  while  the  five 
Misses  Brown  prick  the  attentive  ear — rarer  than  green 
peas  in  January  are  resident  men  at  Dinan — "  and  who  are 
they,  Stephanie?" 

"  One,  mademoiselle,  is  the  little  gentleman  who  comes 
nearly  every  day — the  little  ministre  Anglais  with  the 
spectacles — and  the  other,  never,  mademoiselle,  have  I  seen 
him  before ;  he  is  a  tall,  a  very  tall  gentleman,  with  a  great 
red  beard." 


30  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

I  look  involuntarily  across  at  my  sister ;  her  head  is 
raised,  her  work  is  dropped — she  is  listening. 

"  Very  well,"  I  say,  with  a  sigh  of  impatience ;  "  if 
Mdlle.  Leroux  will  have  the  goodness  to  permit  it,  ask 
them  to  walk  up  here." 

As  I  speak  I  lay  down  the  chip  I  am  plaiting  on  the 
table,  and  cross  over  to  Lenore. 

"  Stephanie  tells  me —  "  I  begin. 

"  I  know,"  she  answers,  briefly ;  "  I  heard." 

"  And  don't  you  think,"  continue  I,  with  doubtful  sug- 
gestion, "  that  it  would  be  better  for  you  to  be  out  of  the 
way  while  they  are  here — they  cannot  stay  long — and  it 
can  hardly  be  pleasant  for  you  to  meet  that  man  ?  " 

"It  is  neither  pleasant  nor  unpleasant,"  she  answers, 
doggedly.  "  I  shall  not  stir ;  not  for  the  world  would  I 
give  him  the  satisfaction  of  thinking  that  I  was  ashamed  to 
face  him." 

In  two  minutes  more  they  have  entered — Frederick 
first,  shyly  smiling,  small,  and  priestly ;  and  behind  him,  a 
large,  grave,  and  unpriestly  stranger.  When  first  the 
brightness  of  the  lit  room  smites  his  eyes,  when  first  the 
smell  of  hot  tea  and  cakes  assails  his  nose,  when  first  the 
clack  of  the  many  women's  tongues — French  and  English 
— attacks  his  ears,  he  shows  an  involuntary  inclination  to 
turn  and  flee,  but,  overcomjpg  the  temptation,  advances, 
with  the  air  of  a  martyr,  to  where  we  are  sitting.  Glad  ot 
the  opportunity  of  gratifying  my  curiosity  afforded  by 
Frederick's  tremulous  and  deprecatory  presentation,  I  look 
up  at  him.  So  this  is  Le  Mesurier !  Surely,  surely,  I 
should  never  have  known  him,  from  my  sister's  angry  de- 
scription. His  eyes  are  not  large  certainly,  but  I  have 
very  frequently  seen  smaller.  His  nose,  on  the  contrary,  is 
certainly  not  small,  but  I  have  very  often  seen  larger.  As 
for  the  villanous  expression  she  mentioned,  if  it  is  any- 


WHAT  LENORE  SAYS.  31 

where  it  must  be  about  his  mouth,  which  is  lying  perchance 
under  great  plenty  of  tawny  hair.  He  looks  at  me  with 
the  cursory,  superficial  glance  with  which  men  always  re- 
gard me ;  looks  at  me  because  I  am  standing  opposite  to 
him — because  he  has  just  been  introduced  to  me — not  in 
the  least  because  he  thinks  me  worth  looking  at,  which  in- 
deed I  am  not.  Lenore  bows  also,  and,  but  for  her  utter 
unsmilingness  and  her  extreme  rudeness,  there  would  be 
nothing  differing  in  this  from  any  ordinary  introduction. 

"  In  what  country  is  it  the  mode  to  pay  morning-calls 
by  moon-light  ?  "  I  hear  her  brusquely  ask  in  a  low  voice 
of  Mr.  West,  who  has  seated  himself  011  the  sofa  beside  her. 

"  Indeed,  Miss  Lenore  "  (leaning  his  two  hands  on  the 
top  of  his  green  umbrella,  and  beaming  wistfully  at  her 
through  the  blue  haze  of  his  spectacles), "  we  did  not  mean 
to  have  come  in  at  all.  I  sent  up  a  message  to  ask 
whether  your  sister  would  be  good  enough  to  come  down 
and  speak  to  me  for  a  minute ;  but  you  know  I  am  not  a 
great  adept  in  French,  and  I  suppose  the  maid  must  have 
mistaken  my  meaning." 

"  You  might  easily  have  corrected  the  blunder  without 
coming  up,"  retorts  my  sister,  ungraciously. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  asks  Frederick,  humbly.  "  Per- 
haps ;  but,  indeed,  it  would  have  been  difficult,  you  see : 
old  Mdlle.  Leroux  overheard  something  of  it,  and  she  came 
down  herself — and — I  am  sure  she  meant  it  most  hospit- 
ably— but  she,  I  may  say,  almost  drove  us  up  before  her." 

"  And  he  !  "  (glancing  irefully  in  Mr.  Le  Mesurier's  di- 
rection, who,  in  bitter  misery,  and  looking  unspeakably 
cross,  is  trying  to  make  Madame  Lange  understand  that  he 
does  not  comprehend  one  word  of  what  she  is  saying  to 
him) — "  and  he  !  What  brings  him  here  ?  It  is  execrable 
taste,  and  I  have  a  good  mind  to  tell  him  so." 

"  Pray,  pray  don't !  "    cries   Frederick,  eagerly ;   "  if 


"GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 


anybody  were  to  blame,  it  was  I.  I  asked  him  whether  he 
would  mind  walking  with  me  as  far  as  the  Porte  St.  Louis. 
and  he  said,  '  Oh,  no,  not  in  the  least.'  He  wanted  to 
have  a  cigar,  and  it  was  the  same  to  him  to  walk  in  this 
direction  as  in  any  other ;  all  he  stipulated  for  was  that  he 
should  not  have  to  go  in"  Lenore  is  still  working ;  she 
gives  her  thread  a  vicious  tug,  which  snaps  it.  "Indeed, 
Miss  Lenore,  he  had  no  more  thought  of  seeking  your  ac- 
quaintance than  you  of  seeking  his." 

This  mode  of  expression  is  unlucky,  as  he  feels  as  soon 
as  it  is  out  of  his  mouth ;  but  Lenore,  fortunately,  does  not 
seem  to  perceive  it. 

"  He  had  no  intention,  then,  of  paying  us  the  honor  of 
a  visit?"  cries  Lenore,  looking  not  much -appeased  by  the 
information,  but,  on  the  contrary,  rather  more  exasperated 
than  before. 

"Not  the  least,"  replies  Frederick,  earnestly;  "you 
may  reassure  yourself  on  that  head — nothing  was  farther 
from  his  thoughts." 

"  He  has,  then,  a  second  time  been  forced  into  our  com- 
pany against  his  will,"  retorts  the  girl,  with  angry  eyes. 

"He  is  not  fond  of  society,"  replies  Frederick,  eva- 
sively ;  "  he  says  himself  that  he  is  totally  unfit  for  it." 

"  There,  at  least,  I  have  the  happiness  entirely  to  agree 
with  him,"  cries  she,  dryly. 

Mr.  Le  Mesurier  has  at  length  succeeded  in  making 
Madame  Lange  understand  that  hers  are  to  him  dark 
sayings. 

u Monsieur  does  not  comprehend?  A  thousand  par- 
dons ;  it  is  unfortunate,  but  I  talk  not  the  English. — Pero- 
line,  my  friend,  thou  hast  learned  the  English  when  thou 
wast  at  school ;  come  hither  and  talk  to  monsieur." 

But  Pe"roline  shakes  all  her  craped  head. 

"  But  no,  mamma ;  monsieur  would  but  laugh  at  me ! " 


WHAT  LENOBE  SAYS.  33 

"Have  you  given  your  message,  West?"  asks  Le 
Mesurier,  abruptly,  joining  his  friend,  and  looking  nearly 
as  much  goaded  to  madness  by  the  women's  shrill  clatter 
as  a  mad  bull  by  red  cloth,  "  because,  if  so,  I  should  say 
we  had  better  not  intrude  on  these  ladies  any  longer." 

Thus  reminded,  Frederick  comes  over  to  impart  his 
errand  to  me,  and  Le  Mesurier,  having  parried  by  dumb 
show  all  old  Mdlle.  Leroux's  offers  of  chair,  sponge-cakes, 
eau  sucre,  remains  standing  silently  by  Lenore. 

"  What  is  this  message  ?  "  she  presently  asks,  abruptly, 
not  raising  her  eyes  from  her  work,  and  seeming  to  address 
her  question  rather  to  the  air  than  to  her  neighbor. 

"  Something  about  a  boat,  I  believe,"  replies  he,  for- 
mally, his  careless  glance  wandering  away  from  her  to 
West,  and  his  foot  beginning  to  tap  an  impatient  tattoo 
on  the  floor. 

"  What  about  it  ?  "  still  more  brusquely. 

"  Some  fellow  here  of  the  name  of  Panache,  or  some- 
thing like  that,  has  lent  him  one,  and  he  invites  you  and 
your  sister  to  have  a  row  up  the  river  to  Lehon  in  it,  to- 
morrow." 

"  Oh !  I  should  have  thought  that  errand  might  have 
kept  till  the  morning." 

"  So  should  I,"  he  answers,  dryly ;  "  so  I  told  him." 

A  little  silence. 

"  Does  he  want  you  to  go,  too  ?  "  she  asks,  moved  by 
some  sudden  impulse,  lifting  her  eyes  and  looking  at  him 
hardily,  yet  shamefacedly. 

"  Me  !  "  (with  surprise),  "  not  that  I  am  aware  of." 

"  Oh  !  "  dropping  her  eyes  again. 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  I  had  no  particular  motive  "  (nonchalantly).  "  I  never 
have  a  motive  for  any  of  my  actions." 

"  Take  a  tea-kettle.     Light  our  own  fire ;  there  must 


34  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

be  plenty  of  sticks  in  those  great  chestnut-woods — have 
tea.  What  do  you  say,  Lenore  ?  "  cry  I,  anxious  to  inter- 
rupt a  ttte-d-ttte  that  must  be  so  distressing  to  my  sister. 

"  Charming  ! "  answers  Lenore,  ironically.  "  A  fire 
that  one  lights  one's  self  never  lights;  the  kettle  invari- 
ably topples  over,  and  water  of  the  river  tastes  of  old  iron ; 
but  what  are  such  trifling  drawbacks  ?  Let  us  go,  by  all 
means ! " 


CHAPTER  V. 

WHAT     JEMIMA     SAYS. 

A  STEEP  path,  and  steps  cut  on  the  hill's  rough  face, 
from  the  blinding  white  high-road  to  the  water's  edge.  A 
beautiful  brown  river  washing  the  feet  of  the  granite 
height,  on  which  Dinan  sits  like  a  queen ;  Dinan's  walls, 
and  towers,  and  spires,  looking  down  upon  its  lonely 
Ranee.  The  Ranee,  that  a  little  lower  down  will  go  steal- 
ing under  the  worn  stone  arches  of  the  old  bridge,  and  a 
little  higher  up  came  flowing  beneath  the  great  viaduct, 
that,  with  its  ten  giant  arches,  strides  across  the  valley. 
At  the  landing-place,  a  little  narrow  four-oar,  with  a  sharp 
nose,  is  lying,  and  around  it  four  people  talking. 

"  Of  course,  if  you  wish  it,  Lenore,  we  must  go,"  I  say, 
resigned,  but  gloomy,  as  I  stand  beneath  a  huge  buff  sun- 
shade, which  casts  a  becoming  yellow  light  on  my  interest- 
ing face,  clad  in  a  dust-colored  gown,  and  girt  about  the 
waist  with  a  leathern  bag — the  impersonation  of  travelling 
Englishwomen.  "  But,  if  we  all  get  in,  we  shall  inevita- 
bly swamp  it." 

"  It  is  only  intended  for  three,  really — two  to  row  and 
one  to  steer,"  says  Frederick,  setting  down  a  very  large 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  35 

basket,  under  which  he  has  been  staggering  along  all  the 
way  from  Mdlle.  Leroux's.  "  But  I  thought  that,  perhaps, 
if  Miss  Jemima  did  not  mind,  one  of  us — the  one  that  is 
lightest — Miss  Jemima,  for  instance,  might  sit  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  boat,  on  shawls,  and  cloaks,  and  so  forth,  in  the 
bows." 

"  It  reminds  one  rather  of  Raphael's  cartoon  of  '  The 
Miraculous  Draught  of  Fishes,'  does  not  it  ?  "  says  Le  Me- 
urier  (for  he  is  the  fourth  person),  laughing,  as  he  jumps 
into  the  little  skiff,  and  deposits  in  it  an  immense  stone  jug 
of  claret-cup.  "  The  proportion  in  size  between  the  Apos- 
tles and  their  boat  is  something  like  the  present  case. — 
Miss  Herrick,  if  you  are  to  sit  in  the  bows,  I'm  afraid  it  will 
have  to  be  upon  the  claret-cup." 

"  Frederick ! "  cries  Lenore,  from  the  lowest  step,  on 
which  she  is  sitting,  lifting  up  calmly-commanding  eyes, 
and  a  little  round  cleft  chin  toward  him;  "suppose  you 
solve  the  difficulty!  Suppose  you  walk;  it  is  charming 
along  the  towing-path ;  no  wind,  no  flies,  no  nothing ! " 

"  Of  course,  if  you  wish,  Miss  Lenore,"  looking  rather 
blank,  and  still  panting  from  the  effects  of  his  wrestle  with 
the  basket ;  "  but—" 

"You  can  add  some  more  butterflies  to  your  collection," 
continues  my  sister,  in  a  wheedling  voice.  "  I  dare  say 
you  have  got  your  green  gauze  scissors  in  your  pocket. — 
Do  you  know  "  (bringing  the  whole  battery  of  her  dimples 
to  bear  upon  Mr.  Le  Mesurier),  "he  catches  butterflies 
with  a  pair  of  green  gauze  scissors,  and  sticks  pins  in  their 
poor  fat  bodies  ;  how  he  reconciles  it  to  his  conscience  and 
his  bishop  I  don't  know,  but  I  suppose,  like  fishing,  it  is  a 
form  of  cruelty  purely  clerical." 

"  It  is  rather  hard  to  turn  poor  "West  out  of  his  own 
boat,  isn't  it  ?  "  replies  Le  Mesurier,  looking  down  on  my 
sister  more  collectedly  than  men  are  in  the  habit  of  look- 


36  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

ing ;  nor,  indeed,  am  I  able  to  detect  one  grain  of  admira- 
tion or  approbation  in  his  cold  blue  eyes.  He  looks  at  her 
much  as  he  looked  at  me.  "I  say,  West,  you  weigh,  I 
regret  to  say,  at  least  five  stone  less  than  I  do ;  you  take 
my  place.  I  really  and  truly  don't  care  a  straw  about  it." 

This  last  sentence,  emphatically  spoken,  is  intended  for 
an  aside ;  but  I,  who  have  a  happy  knack  of  overhearing 
things  that  I  am  not  meant  to  overhear,  catch  it.  Freder- 
ick's piece  of  information  about  his  friend,  "the  society 
of  respectable  women  always  bores  him — he  makes  no  secret 
of  it,"  recurs  to  my  mind.  He  is  doing  his  best  to  shirk 
two  eminently  respectable  women  at  the  present  moment. 

"  Lenore  !  "  cry  I,  reddening,  as  I  feel,  under  my  yellow 
umbrella;  "let  us  row  ourselves;  we  have,  at  all  events, 
got  the  mainstay  of  the  entertainment — the  tea-kettle  and 
the  claret-cup." 

But  Lenore  frowns,  and  turns  away. 

"  Perhaps,  after  all,  I  had  better  walk,"  says  Frederick, 
uncertainly,  glancing  with  uneasiness  toward  my  sister's 
averted  head.  "  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  the  best  arrange- 
ment." 

"Just  as  you  please,  of  course,"  replies  Le  Mesurier, 
looking  rather  disappointed,  while  a  little  smile  of  con- 
tempt plays  about  his  mouth,  and  the  half-inch  of  tanned 
cheek  that  his  beard  leaves  visible.  Lenore  rises. 

"  As  soon  as  this  amiable  contention  as  to  who  should 
show  most  alacrity  in  trying  to  avoid  us  is  ended,  perhaps 
some  one  will  help  me  in,"  she  says,  rather  sharply,  and 
with  a  certain  elevation  in  air  of  nose  and  chin.  Le  Mesu- 
rier gives  her  his  hand ;  he  does  not  rush  forward  to  do  so, 
as  most  men  would  in  her  case ;  does  not  tumble  over  his 
own  legs  in  his  precipitancy,  like  poor  Frederick ;  only  he 
is  standing  nearest  her,  and  therefore  he  gives  it  her. 

"  Put  your  foot  exactly  in  the  middle ;  walk  steadily ; 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  37 

go  to  the  stern ;  you  had  better  steer ! "  he  says  shortly, 
and  rather  austerely. 

Half  an  hour  afterward,  Frederick  and  his  green  um- 
brella are  tramping  disconsolately  along  the  towing-path, 
and  we  are  being  sculled  up-stream  by  an  unwilling  gentle- 
man, upon  whom  we  have  forced  ourselves,  and  who  is 
longing  to  be  rid  of  us.  The  sun  pours  down  in  broad 
golden  rain  upon  the  blinding  bright  river.  Through  the 
viaduct's  great  arches,  towering  up  against  the  June  sky, 
we  see  heaven's  sapphire  eyes  looking.  The  air  is  astir  with 
the  winged  families  that  live  onl%f  a  day,  but  whose  one  day 
is  all  joy.  The  sombre  chestnut  woods  that  darkly  clothe 
the  steep  slopes,  run  down  to  the  river's  side,  as  if  hasten- 
ing to  drink  ;  white-capped  women  are  kneeling  by  the  edge, 
washing  linen  and  beating  it  viciously  on  stones  with  wood- 
en shovels ;  no  wonder  that  there  are  jagged  holes  in  one's 
cotton  gowns  when  they  come  home  from  the  laundress. 
Long  blue  dragon-flies  sail  slow  and  kingly  among  the  flags 
and  flowering  rushes  that  grow  along  the  river — that  grow 
again,  the  same,  only  wrong  way  up,  in  the  vivid,  clear 
reflections.  We  are  each  of  us  rather  silent,  partly  because 
we  are  hot,  partly  because  we  are  none  of  us  in  a  very  good 
temper.  Lenore  leans  over  the  side,  and  drags  her  bare 
right  hand  through  the  water,  making  our  little  cockle-shell 
lurch  unpleasantly. 

"  You  had  better  sit  straight,  Miss  Herrick ;  it  takes 
very  little  to  destroy  the  equilibrium  of  this  sort  of  boat," 
says  Mr.  Le  Mesurier,  rather  dryly.  Lenore  does  not  ap- 
pear to  hear;  she  only  leans  a  little  farther  over,  and 
admires  her  own  slim  fingers,  that  look  unnaturally,  lucidly 
white,  seen  through  the  watery  veil. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  sit  straight !  "  cries  he,  a  second 
time,  but  much  more  energetically,  as  the  gunwale  of  the 
boat  comes  almost  ~on  a  level  with  the  water.  Lenore  draws 
herself  slowly  up. 


38  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  Were  you  speaking  to  me  ?  "  she  asks,  with  provoking 
coolness ;  "  how  could  I  tell  ?  You  said,  *  Sit  straight,  Miss 
Herrick.'  I  am  not  Miss  Herrick !  " 

"  Miss  Lenore,  then.  I  will  call  you  what  you  please, 
only  for  Heaven's  sake  sit  still." 

"  I  wonder  you  ever  go  in  a  boat,  if  you  are  so  ner- 
vous," says  my  sister,  tartly. 

"  I  am  not  nervous,  as  you  call  it,  when  I  am  with  peo- 
ple who  behave  rationally,"  replies  he,  coldly ;  "  but  I 
know  that  a  mere  touch  will  upset  a  boat  of  this  kind,  and 
I  also  know  that,  if  it  did^upset,  one  of  you  two  would  in- 
fallibly drown,  for  I  could  not  possibly  save  you  both." 

"  One  of  us  ?  Which  of  us  ?  "  cries  my  sister,  and  I 
see  a  mischievous  devil  come  into  her  eyes  as  she  begins 
to  laugh,  and  to  rock  violently  from  side  to  side,  "  I  must 
see  which." 

"  Lenore  !  Lenore !  "  cry  I,  in  an  agony,  clutching  the 
sides  of  the  boat,  "  stop,  for  Heaven's  sake  !  I  beg,  I  im- 
plore. Lenore  !  Lenore ! " 

But  all  in  vain.  Lenore  only  laughs  and  rocks  the 
more.  Mr.  Le  Mesurier  says  nothing,  nor  can  I  see  the  ex- 
pression of  his  face,  as  I  am  sitting  behind  him ;  he  only 
turns  the  boat's  head  toward  shore,  and  half  a  dozen  vigor- 
ous strokes  of  the  oar  bring  us  swish  through  a  great  com- 
pany of  stiff  bulrushes  to  land.  Mr.  Le  Mesurier  jumps 
out. 

"  Miss  Herrick,"  he  says,  gravely,  "  I  shall  be  delighted 
to  row  you  home  this  evening,  but  as  I  cannot  answer  for 
your  life  for  five  minutes,  as  long  as  your  sister  is  in  the 
boat,  I  should  be  very  much  obliged  if  you  would  get  out 
now." 

"  Perhaps  I  was  foolish,"  reply  I,  grasping  my  umbrella, 
and  scrambling  out  on  the  oxeyed  bank,  "  but  I  have  such 
a  horror  of  drowning." 


WHAT  TEE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  39 

CHAPTER   VI. 

WHAT    THE    AUTHOK    SATS. 

"Now,  Miss  Lenore,  I  am  quite  at  your  service,"  says 
Le  Mesurier,  resuming  his  seat,  taking  the  oar.s  again,  and 
pushing  out  into  mid-stream.  Lenore  hangs  her  head,  and 
dries  her  fingers  with  her  pocket-handkerchief,  but  does 
not  answer.  "  It  was  no  doubt  very  spirited  of  you,  trying 
to  upset  the  boat,  because  your  sister  asked  you  not,"  con- 
tinues he,  sarcastically;  "  but  as  she  did  not  seem  to  see  it 
in  the  same  light,  I  thought  that  the  kindest  thing  I  could 
do  was  to  land  her." 

"  Jemima  is  a  coward,"  replies  Lenore,  pouting ;  "  the 
only  kind  of  boat  she  likes  is  a  great  broad-bottomed  tub, 
that  one  might  play  leap-frog  in  without  upsetting." 

"  I  should  think  it  would  be  the  pleasantest  kind  of 
craft  to  go  out  boating  with  you  in,"  rejoins  he,  with  rather 
a  grim  smile ;  "  but  now,  as  I  said  before,  I  am  quite  at 
your  service;  upset  me  as  soon  as  ever  the  spirit  moves 
you." 

"You  give  me  carte  blanche?  " 

"  Carte  Uanche!" 

"  But  if  I  did  upset  the  boat,"  says  Lenore,  half  laugh- 
ing, half  vexed — "  I  don't  say  that  I  am  going — but  if  I 
did,  your  first  care  ought  to  be  to  pull  me  out." 

"Ought  it?" 

"  Oughtn't  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  ought  to  be,"  replies  Paul,  pull- 
ing leisurely  along  through  the  shining  flood;  "I  know 
what  it  would  be." 

"What?" 

"  To  pull  myself  out." 


40  "  GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!  » 

"  You  are  like  a  man  I  heard  of,  who  said  one  day  to 
another  man  out  hunting,  l  Don't  look  behind,  there  are 
two  women  in  the  ditch ;  and  if  you  look  you'll  have  to 
stop  and  pick  them  out.'  " 

"./"was  the  man." 

Lenore  laughs.     "  You  would  let  me  drown,  then  ?  " 

"Undoubtedly." 

"  Well,  you  are  the  only  man  in  the  world  who  could 
sit  there  and  tell  me  so  to  my  face,"  cries  the  girl,  angry 
scintillations  flashing  from  her  superb  eyes,  and  the  ever- 
ready  color  rushing  headlong  to  her  cheeks. 

"  If  you  were  to  upset  the  boat,"  replies  Paul,  calmly, 
looking  with  intense  disapprobation  at  his  beautiful  com- 
panion, "  I  should  know  that  it  was  yo'ur  deliberate  inten- 
tion to  commit  suicide,  and  I  hope  I  have  better  man- 
ners than  to  run  counter  to  any  lady's  plainly-expressed 
wishes." 

"  I  have  a  great  mind  to  try,"  answers  Lenore,  looking 
down  into  the  clear  brown  depth,  where  her  own  image 
lies,  tremulous  and  shimmering,  and  then  into  Le  Mesuri- 
er's  impassive  face. 

"  Do.  by  all  means ;  only  let  me  pull  you  a  hundred 
yards  farther  on.  It  is  five  or  six  feet  deeper  under  those 
poplars." 

"After  all,  I  think  I  won't,"  saj-s  Lenore,  naively,  her 
anger  subsiding,  as  soon  as  she  sees  that  it  neither  alarms 
nor  awes,  nor  even  very  much  amuses  him.  "  I  don't  know 
how  it  is  with  other  people,  but,  with  me,  the  mere  fact  of 
being  given  leave  to  do  a  thing,  takes  away  all  desire  to 
do  it." 

"  From  the  little  I  know  of  your  character,  I  should 
imagine  that  you  did  not  often  wait  to  be  given  leave." 

"  Not  very  often,"  replies  the  girl,  gravely,  looking  away 
beyond  him,  to  where,  on  the  Ranee's  right  bank,  Lehon 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  41 

Abbey  lifts  its  roofless  walls  and  gray  arches  to  the  sky. 
"  Once,  long  ago,  when  I  was  little,  I  was  very,  very  ill — 
I'm  not  over-strong  now,  though  you  would  not  think  it  to 
look  at  me — and  the  doctor  said  I  was  to  have  whatever 
I  asked  for,  for  fear  of  bringing  on  a  fit  of  coughing  if  I 
screamed  ;  the  consequence  was  that,  if  ever  I  wanted  any 
thing,  I  always  threatened  to  break  a  blood-vessel,  and 
straightway  got  it." 

"I  should  think  that  that  threat  had  lost  its  efficacy 
now,"  says  Paul,  looking  incredulously  at  the  girl's  full, 
womanly  figure,  and  at  the  plump  though  slender  dimpled 
hand,  that  droops  over  the  boat-side — at  the  round  cream- 
white  column  of  her  proud  throat. 

"  No,  it  has  not,"  she  answers,  shaking  her  head ;  "  the 
prestige  of  my  delicacy  still  remains,  though  the  fact  no 
longer  exists,  and  I,  of  course,  am  careful  to  keep  up  a  tra- 
dition which  tends  so  much  to  my  own  interest,  as  it  ena- 
bles me  to  have  my  own  way  in  every  thing." 

"  What  a  very  bad  thing  for  you  ! "  says  Le  Mesurier, 
brusquely.  "  If  I  were  your  sister,  I  should  set  up  a  rival 
blood-vessel." 

"  It  would  be  no  use,"  answers  Lenore,  laughing,  and 
swinging  her  broad  straw  hat  to  and  fro.  "  Jemima  is  one 
of  those  hopelessly  healthy  people  who  will  live  on,  with- 
out an  ache  or  a  pain,  to  a  hundred,  and  then  tumble  down- 
stairs or  get  run  over  by  an  omnibus,  natural  means  having 
proved  utterly  inadequate  to  kill  her." 

They  are  slowly  sliding  past  Lehon,  past  the  ivied 
bridge,  past  the  steps  down  to  the  waters,  wherein  the 
Lehon  monks  used  to  bathe  their  holy,  sleek  bodies  in  the 
by-gone  summers,  in  the  quick  stream.  Pious  Sybarites, 
who  reconciled  God  and  Mammon  as  never  any  one  has 
done  since  then ! 

"  It  would  have  been  very  different  if  papa  had  lived," 


42  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

continues  Lenore,  beginning  to  dabble  again,  unremon- 
strated  with  this  time.  <;  He  used  to  make  us  get  up  at 
five  o'clock  on  winter  mornings  to  go  out  walking  by  star- 
light with  him ;  used  to  make  us  stand  in  a  row  before 
him,  with  our  hands  behind  our  backs,  to  repeat  the  Cate- 
chism ;  and  if  we  stumbled  in  our  '  Duty  to  our  Neighbor,' 
or  '  I  desire ' — Jemima  always  stuck  fast  in  '  I  desire ' — 
made  us  hold  our  hands  to  be  caned." 

"  What  a  thousand  pities  that  he  died ! "  says  Paul, 
almost  involuntarily,  resting  on  his  oars,  and  staring 
straight  from  under  his  tilted  hat  at  his  vis-d-vis's  face,  his 
keen  eyes  undazzled  by  all  the  pretty  tints  and  harmonious 
hues  that  feast  them. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  cries  Lenore,  looking  up  from  the 
contemplation  of  her  own  face  in  the  water.  "  Now,  on 
the  contrary,  I  think  it  was  such  a  mercy  that  he  did.  I 
never  feel  tempted  to  question  the  wisdom  of  Providence's 
decrees  in  that  particular  instance." 

"  What  a  truly  filial  sentiment !  " 

"  Don't  look  so  shocked,"  answers  the  girl,  beginning 
to  laugh  again.  "  I  was  but  five  years  old  when  he  died, 
and  the  only  very  clearly-defined  association  that  I  have 
with  him  is  the  biting  his  hand  one  day,  and  being  shut  up 
in  the  black-hole  because  I  would  not  say  I  was  sorry.  I 
was  not  sorry ;  I  never  was  sorry ;  I  am  not  sorry  now." 

"  All  the  same,  I  still  regret  that  he  died." 

"Why?" 

"  Every  woman  needs  some  one  to  keep  her  in  order," 
replies  he,  gravely ,«as  if  giving  utterance  to  a  sentiment 
against  which  there  can  be  no  appeal.  "  Until  she  has  got 
a  husband — her  natural  and  legitimate  master — she  ought 
to  have  a  father." 

"  Natural  and  legitimate  master ! "  repeats  Lenore, 
scornfully,  drawing  up  her  long  throat.  "  Did  I  hear 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  43 

aright  ?  That  would  be  the  subjection  of  mind  to  matter, 
instead  of  matter  to  mind." 

"  I  can't  say  that  I  agree  with  you  "  (very  dryly). 

"  There  is  not  that  man  living  that  could  keep  me  in 
order ;  I  would  break  his  heart,  and  his  spirit,  and  every 
thing  breakable  about  him,  first ! " 

"  I  have  no  doubt  that  you  would  try." 

"I  should  succeed.  I  have  got  papa's  temper;  they 
all  tell  me  so — Jemima — my  other  sister — everybody" 
(speaking  very  triumphantly). 

"  You  say  it  as  if  it  were  matter  for  pride.  It  is  as- 
tonishing what  things  people  pride  themselves  on.  I  be- 
lieve there  was  once  a  family  which  piqued  itself  on  hav- 
ing two  thumbs  on  each  of  its  hands." 

"  I  should  pity  the  poor  man  who  undertook  to  keep 
me  in  order,"  says  Lenore,  folding  her  hands  in  her  lap, 
while  delicious  ripples  of  laughter  play  about  her  lips  and 
cheeks  at  the  thought  of  the  sufferings  that  await  her  fu- 
ture owner. 

"  Of  course,  you  never  mean  to  marry  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  I  do,  though  ! "  (getting  rather  angry,  and 
coloring  faintly).  "Do  you  think  I  mean  to  be  an  old 
maid  ?  " 

"  I  think,"  replies  Paul,  bluntly,  "  that  considering  the 
utter  docility  which  with  you  would  be  a  sine  qud  non  in 
a  husband,  you  run  a  very  good  chance  of  being  one." 

Silence  lor  a  few  moments  ;  no  sound  but  the  "  swish  " 
of  the  oars — the  cool  wash  of  the  water  against  the  keel ; 
then  Lenore,  resolute,  womanlike,  to  have  the  last  word, 
recommences : 

"  Confess,"  she  says,  leaning  forward  toward  him  a 
little,  and  emphasizing  her  remarks  with  her  forefinger ; 
"confess  that  there  is  not  a  more  laughable,  degrading 


44  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

sight  on  the  face  of  the  earth  than  a  woman  in  a  state  of 
abject  subjection  to  her  husband !  " 

"  Confess,"  replies  Paul,  leaning  forward  a  little  also, 
and  also  speaking  with  emphasis,  "  that  there  is  not  a 
more  contemptible,  degrading  sight  on  the  face  of  the 
earth  than  a  man  in  a  state  of  abject  submission  to  his 
wife!" 

"  You  may  laugh  !  "  cries  Lenore,  loftily,  carrying  her 
head  very  high,  and  looking  defiantly  at  him;  "but  I 
maintain  that  there  is  not  a  more  contemptible  creature  in 
creation  than  a  patient  Grizzel ! " 

"  And  I  maintain,"  retorts  Paul,  looking  back  with 
equal  defiance,  "  that  there  is  not  a  more  pitiable  reptile  in 
creation  then  a  hen-pecked  husband,  if  such  a  being  ever 
existed,  which  I  have  some  difficulty  in  bringing  myself  to 
believe." 

They  have  both  raised  their  voices  a  little  in  their  eager- 
ness. Three  Englishwomen  riding  by  on  donkeys,  their 
draperies  extending  from  head  to  tail  over  those  ill-used 
animals,  turn  their  heads.  M.  Dunois,  the  barber's  son, 
taking  his  afternoon  canter,  on  a  big  bay  horse  along  the 
towing-path,  turns  his  also. 

"  The  aborigines  are  astonished  at  our  vehemence,"  says 
Paul,  recollecting  himself;  "and  really,"  with  a  careless 
laugh,  "  as  we  neither  of  us  have  at  present  a  victim  to  test 
our  theories  and  wreak  our  cruelties  upon,  we  need  not 
excite  ourselves  over  it,  need  we  ?  " 

Lenore's  sole  answer  is  a  vivid  blush,  of  whose  birth 
she  herself  could  give  no  account. 

"  What  on  earth  has  come  to  the  girl  ?  "  Le  Mesurier 
says  to  himself,  staring  at  her  with  the  open,  unconscious 
stare  of  utter  surprise;  "alternately  making  very  silly 
remarks,  and  getting  as  red  as  a  turkey-cock  over  them.  I 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  45 

wonder  does  she  smoke  ?  As  likely  as  not.  Shall  I  ask 
her  ?  At  all  events,  I  wish  she  would  let  me." 

"  How  long  are  3^011  going  to  stay  at  Dinan  ?  "  inquires 
Miss  Lenore,  presently,  with  an  abrupt  change  of  subject. 

Paul  shrugs  his  shoulders. 

"  God  knows ! " 

"  What  an  unnecessarily  forcible  expression ! " 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  It  is  what  the  shopkeepers  in  one 
part  of  Spain  answer  if  you  ask  them  whether  they  have 
such  and  such  wares  in  their  shops ;  they  are  too  lazy  to 
look,  so  they  say,  '  God  knows  ! ' ' 

"Long,  do  you  think?"  pursues  the  girl,  perseveringly, 
not  heeding  his  apocryphal  little  anecdote. 

"  Until  my  friend  gets  tired  of  his  friend,  M.  de  Rou- 
billon's  chateau,  with  all  its  absurd  little  turrets  and 
weathercocks,  I  suppose,"  replies  Paul,  being  not  entirely 
free  from  an  old-fashioned  insular  contempt  for  every  thing 
Gallic. 

"  What  is  your  friend's  name  ?  " 

"  Scrope." 

"What  is  he  like?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know;"  looking  vaguely  round  at  the 
water — the  chestnut-trees — the  flags,  for  inspiration.  "  I'm 
a  very  bad  hand  at  describing ;  he  is  much  like  everybody 
else,  I"  suppose."  » 

"  Like  yow,  for  instance,"  rather  maliciously. 

"  Good  Heavens  !  no ;  "  breaking  into  a  short  laugh ; 
"  he  would  be  flattered  at  the  suggestion  ! " 

"  You  mean  that  he  is  good-looking  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  yes  ;  he  is  all  very  well  "  (rather  impatiently). 

"  And  how  soon  do  you  imagine  that  he  will  be  here  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  in  two  or  three  days,  I  should  hope." 

"  You  should  hope  !  " — with  a  little  accent  of  pique — 
"  you  don't  like  Dinan,  then  ?  " 


46  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  It  is  all  very  well  for  France,"  replies  Paul,  magnifi- 
cently ;  "  but  it  is  rather  like  a  penny  bun — a  little  of  it 
goes  a  long  way." 

Lenore  bends  down  her  small  head,  heavily  laden  with 
great  twists  and  curious  plaits  of  crisp  brown  hair,  and 
ceases  from  her  questionings.  It  is  Le  Mesurier's  turn  to 
catechise. 

"  Are  you  so  very  proud  of  Dinan,  then,  Miss  Herrick  ?" 

"We  are  fond  of  any  place  that  is  cheap,"  replies 
Lenore,  shortly.  "Any  place  where  mutton  is  sevenpence 
a  pound  seems  to  us  prettier  and  pleasanter  than  one  where 
it  is  tenpence." 

"  Oh,  really ! "  looking  and  feeling  rather  awkward, 
and  not  exactly  knowing  how  to  take  this  manifestation  of 
unnecessary  candor. 

"  We  are  real  Bohemians,  Jemima  and  I,"  pursues  the 
girl,  resting  on  her  hand  her  small  downy  face — downy 
with  the  wonderful  bloom  of  life's  beautiful  red  morning; 
a  bloom  as  transient  and  unreplaceable  as  the  faint  gray 
dust  on  just-gathered  grapes.  "  We  pay  our  debts,  but 
otherwise  we  are  quite  Bohemians.  We  go  and  stay  at 
places  out  of  the  proper  season ;  we  drive  all  over  London 
in  omnibuses,  and  go  down  the  Thames  in  penny  steam- 
boats, and  do  a  hundred  other  uncivilized  things.  One 
summer  we  spent  at  Boulogne;  I  liked  that,  Jemima 
hated  it." 

"  I  dare  say." 

"  Oh  !  that  etablissement !  "  cries  Lenore,  clasping  her 
hands  together  in  childish  glee  at  the  recollection,  while 
her  speech  trickles  off  into  pretty  low  laughter.  "  What 
fun  it  was !  and  how  happy  all  the  wicked  people  looked ! 
Everybody  walking  about  with  somebody  that  did  not 
belong  to  them." 

"  No  wonder  you  enjoyed  yourself,"  replies  Paul,  sar- 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  47 

castically,  rather  disgusted ;  not,  as  I  need  hardly  say,  at 
the  fact  related,  but  at  the  narrator. 

"  Look  at  Jemima  gesticulating  from  the  bank,"  cries 
Lenore,  happily  ignorant  of  the  emotion  she  has  pro- 
duced ;  nor,  indeed,  is  the  idea  that  any  one  can  be  dis- 
gusted with  her  very  much  prone  to  present  itself  to  her 
mind.  "  How  eloquent  an  umbrella  can  be  when  wielded 
by  a  cunning  hand  !  What  a  great  deal  Jemima's  is  say- 
ing J" 

"It  is  saying,  'Land!'  I  imagine,  isn't  it?  Let  us 
land,"  replies  Paul,  with  some  alacrity,  his  thoughts  turn- 
ing more  affectionately  toward  claret-cup  than  toward  a 
prolonged  tZte-d-tcte  with  Lenore. 

"  Let  us  land,"  echoes  the  girl,  with  the  slightest  pos- 
sible unintentional  sigh. 


CHAPTER  VH. 

WHAT     JEMIMA     SATS. 

THE  flags  and  the  thick  green  rushes  make  way  for  the 
little  boat;  on  either  side  they  part,  and  through  them 
and  over  them  she  slides,  smooth  and  slow,  to  shore. 

"  What  have  you  done  with  my  cockatoo  ?  "  cries  Le 
nore,  putting  one  little  high-heeled  shoe  on  the  prow  and 
springing  lightly  to  my  side.  "  Have  you  mislaid  him  on 
the  way,  or  has  a  lily-white  duck  come  and  gobbled  him 
up?" 

"Neither,"  reply  I,  rather  morose  at  having  been 
defrauded  of  my  water-party,  "  he  is  up  in  the  wood  pick- 
ing sticks ;  he  has  been  gathering  you  a  nosegay  as  big  as 
a  coachman's  on  a  drawing-rocm  day,  as  we  came  along." 


48  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  I  wish  I  could  break  him  of  that  habit,"  cries  Lenore, 
petulantly  ;  "  it  is  a  bore  having  to  carry  them,  and  a  still 
greater  bore  having  to  say  '  Thank  you  '  for  a  great  posy 
of  dandelions  and  buttercups." 

"  Poor  West ! "  says  Le  Mesurier,  with  a  half-contemp- 
tuous laugh ;  "  he  shall  give  them  to  me ;  I  like  dande- 
lions." 

"  Oh,  so  do  I,"  replies  Lenore,  quickly.  "  I'm  wild  about 
flowers ;  they  are  the  only  things  that  do  not  deceive  us — 
as  I  once  overheard  a  girl  saying  to  her  partner  at  a  ball." 

"  We  had  better  keep  in  sight  of  the  boat,"  I  say,  with 
my  usual  excellent  common-sense,  "  or  the  Dinan  gamins 
will  be  sure  to  steal  it." 

"  Have  you  been  here  long  enough,"  asks  Lenore,  ad- 
dressing Mr.  Le  Mesurier  over  the  top  of  my  head,  "  to 
discover  how  cordially  these  interesting  natives  hate  us 
English  ?  Even  abandoned  infants  of  three  and  four  throw 
stones  and  ugly  words  at  us,  only  luckily  one  does  not 
understand  Breton  Billingsgate." 

"  We  spend  a  good  deal  of  money  in  making  ourselves 
hated  in  every  quarter  of  the  globe  ;  it  is  a  little  way  we 
have,"  replies  Le  Mesurier,  with  languid  interest,  as  he 
stalks  along,  a  martyr  to  circumstances,  with  a  great  stone 
jug  in  one  hand  and  a  kettle  in  the  other. 

"  It  is  too  hard  upon  us  poor  out-at-elbows  English — you 
must  know  we  are  all  out-at-elbows  here,"  continues  Le- 
nore— "  wasting  our  substance  in  clothing  these  Bretons 
and  giving  them  better  food  than  their  wretched  galette, 
and  then  getting  pelted  for  our  pains." 

"  One  always  gets  pelted,  literally  or  metaphorically, 
when  one  tries  to  do  one's  neighbors  good,"  replies  Le 
Mesurier,  misanthropically ;  "  better  leave  it  alone." 

We  have  turned  off  from  the  towing-path,  and  into  the 
chestnut-wood.  There  is  no  undergrowth,  nor  do  the  trees 


WHAT  JEMIMA   SAYS.  49 

stand  so  close  together  but  that  there  is  pleasant  space  for 
walking  shadily  beneath  them.  A  little  way  ahead  of  us 
we  see  a  small  gray  smoke  and  little  shoots  of  fire  rising 
straight  upward  through  the  windless  air,  and  beside  it, 
Frederick  on  his  knees,  with  his  cheeks  puffed  out  like  a 
trumpet-player  or  a  wind-god's,  blowing  the  flame. 

"  Here's  devotion  for  you,"  cries  Le  Mesurier,  laughing, 
and  indicating  Mr.  West  with  his  kettle.  "  Poor  West ! 
making  himself  into  an  improvised  pair  of  bellows  ! " 

"Dame!  as  they  say  here,  how  ugly  he  is!"  cries 
Lenore,  bursting  out  laughing. 

"  What  base  ingratitude !  "  says  Le  Mesurier,  casting 
up  his  eyes  theatrically  to  the  chestnut-boughs ;  "  a  man 
ruins  his  trousers  kneeling  on  damp  grass,  puts  himself 
into  a  ridiculous  attitude,  and  runs  the  risk  of  getting  con- 
gestion of  the  lungs  for  you,  and  all  you  say  is — what  was 
it  ?  did  I  hear  aright  ? — '  Damn  !  how  ugly  he  is.'  " 

"I  said  French  Dame,  not  English,"  r.etorts  Lenore, 
still  laughing ;  "  there  is  a  very  great  difference  in  force 
between  the  two." 

"  Dame  is  about  equivalent  to  our  '  Lor,' "  I  say,  sen- 
tentiously,  "  and  I  should  imagine  nearly  as  vulgar." 

"One  can  use  it  with  a  pleasant  arritre  pensee  of 
swearing,  you  know,"  says  my  sister,  "  without  the  wick- 
edness." 

"  I  think  that  will  do  now,"  cries  Frederick,  looking 
up  at  us  with  bland  triumph  from  his  kneeling  posture,  his 
cheeks  reddened  -with  the  exertion  of  inflating  them,  and 
his  eyes  watering  from  ihe  smoke ;  "  the  sticks  were  rather 
greeiv" 

"  You  looked  an  impersonation  of  Zephyr,  as  we  came 
along,"  answers  Lenore,  banteringly — "  didn't  he  ?  Didn't 
we  say  so,  Mr.  Le  Mesurier  ?  " 

"  We  did,  all  of  us  ;  there  was  not  a  dissentient  voice," 
3 


50  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

replies  Le  Mesurier,  inattentively,  fighting  with  an  immense 
yawn,  and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  stone  jug. 

"  Will  you  run  and  fill  the  kettle  ?  Frederick  must 
make  a  nice  flat  place  for  it  to  sit  upon,"  continues  my 
sister;  "you  know"  (looking  up  at  him  with  a  sort  of 
sleepy  coquetry  from  under  her  eyes)  "  that  it  was  only  on 
the  condition  that  you  were  useful  that  we  allowed  you  to 
come  at  all." 

It  may  be  my  imagination,  but  I  cannot  help  fancying 
that  our  new  acquaintance  elevates  his  eyebrows  almost 
imperceptibly  at  this  speech. 

"  I  don't  think  that  Mr.  Le  Mesurier  would  have  broken 
his  heart  if  we  had  not  let  him  come,"  I  say  tartly,  in  irri- 
tated surprise  at  Lenore's  want  of  perception.  So  speak- 
ing, I  kneel  down,  and  with  a  chafed  spirit  begin  to  unpack 
the  basket  and  cut  bread-and-butter.  Lenore  flings  herself 
down  on  the  grass,  and  lying  all  along  among  the  wood- 
flowers,  watches  with  a  malicious  smile  Frederick,  who  has 
begun  again  to  blow  his  flagging  fire.  The  three  English 
ladies  on  donkeys  pass  along  the  towing-path ;  they  turn 
their  blue-veiled  heads  toward  our  little  encampment,  and 
stare.  The  youth,  whose  pleasing  task  it  is  to  goad  their 
jackasses  into  fitful  and  momentary  gallops,  stands  stock- 
still,  with  wide  hungry  eyes  fastened  on  the  bread  and 
marmalade. 

"  Frederick  has  overblown  himself,"  says  Lenore,  laugh- 
ing ;  "  he  has  blown  all  his  fire  away. — Mima,  dear,  you 
must  go  and  pick  up  some  more  sticks  for  him." 

I  am  preparing  to  rise  and  obey  with  my  usual  tame 
docility,  when  Mr.  Le  Mesurier,  who  has  just  returned 
with  his  full,  dripping  kettle  from  the  Ranee,  interposes : 

"  Miss  Lenore — your  name  is  Lenore,  not  Leonora,  is 
not  it  ? — may  I  ask  you  one  question  ?  " 

"  So  as  it  is  not  how  old  I  am,  or  whether  my  chignon 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  51 

is  all  my  own  hair,"  replies  Lenore,  with  a  sort  of  uneasy 
smartness. 

"  It  is  neither ;  I  don't  want  to  know  either,"  he  an- 
swers, gravely. 

"  What  is  it,  then  ?  Say  on,"  throwing  her  head  back 
a  little,  to  be  able  to  get  a  good  look  at  him. 

"  Why  do  not  you  go  and  pick  up  sticks  yourself,  in- 
stead of  sending  your  elder  sister  ?  " 

"  Elder  sister ! "  cry  I,  with  a  mirthless  laugh.  "  Please 
don't  challenge  respect  for  me  on  that  head  ;  I  had  rather 
be  treated  with  contumely  for  evermore,  than  reverenced 
for  such  a  triste  superiority." 

"  I  do  not  go  myself,"  replies  Lenore,  not  listening  to 
me,  but  still  looking  steadily  up  at  him,  "  because  I  make 
it  a  rule  never  to  do  any  thing  for  myself  that  I  can  get 
any  one  else  to  do  for  me." 

"  Oh,  indeed !     Thanks,"  turning  away. 

"  I  set  no  manner  of  store  by  those  little  every-day 
virtues,"  continues  Lenore,  disdainfully  thrusting  out  her 
red  under-lip ;  "  running  on  other  people's  errands,  carry- 
ing their  parcels,  ordering  dinner,  sitting  with  your  back 
to  the  horses — any  one  can  do  them;  they  are  a  great 
deal  of  trouble,  and  there  is  no  credit  to  be  got  out  of 
them. 

"  Anybody  cannot  sit  with  his  back  to  the  horses,  for  it 
makes  some  people  sick,"  replies  Le  Mesurier,  laughing. 

He  has  thrown  himself  forward,  full  length  on  the 
ground,  in  one  of  those  carelessly-graceful  attitudes  that 
the  British  gentleman  affects ;  his  hat  is  on  the  back  of  his 
head,  and  his  feet  are  kicking  about  among  the  catchflys 
and  ragged-robins. 

"  Now  if  it  were  some  big  thing,"  continues  my  sister, 
flushing,  as  she,  having  raised  herself  from  the  grass,  leans 
her  back  against  a  chestnut-trunk,  "  I  could  do  it — I  know 


62  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

I  could;  that  is,  if  I  had  the  chance,  and  if  there  were 
plenty  of  people  to  look  on." 

"  And  cry  '  Hooray ! '  like  the  little  boys  on  Guy-Fawkes 
day. — Would  you  ladies  mind  my  smoking  one  cigar?" 

"  I  could  have  driven  in  the  cart  to  the  Place  de  la  R6- 
volution,  like  Madame  Roland,"  continues  Lenore,  begin- 
ning to  march  up  and  down,  with  her  head  up,  and  her 
hands  behind  her  back ;  "  standing  up  all  the  way,  in  a 
white  gown,  with  little  red  carnations  on  it,  and  my  long 
black  hair  hanging  down  my  back ;  I  could  have  smiled 
back  at  the  yelling  sans-culottes — " 

"  I'm  afraid  you  could  not  get  guillotined  nowadays  if 
you  were  to  be  shot  for  it,"  returns  he,  coolly,  holding  his 
cigar  suspended  between  his  fore  and  middle  fingers ;  "  it  is 
next  door  to  impossible  to  get  hanged." 

"  I  could  have  stabbed  Marat  in  his  bath,"  pursues  Le- 
nore, clinching  her  hand  upon  an  imaginary  knife.  "  Yes, 
stabbed  him  as  he  sat  there,  unshorn,  sick,  with  a  dirty  cloth 
about  his  head — " 

"  I'm  afraid  if  you  stick  Beales  or  Bradlaugh  in  their 
tubs,  you  will  only  get  ten  years  for  it,  commuted  to  two, 
if  you  make  love  to  the  chaplain,"  replies  Le  Mesurier, 
resolutely  prosaic. 

"  I  could  have— " 

"  You  could  have  hammered  Sisera's  temples  to  the  floor 
or  sawn  off  poor  tipsy  Holofernes's  head,"  interrupts  Mr. 
Le  Mesurier,  rather  impatiently  cutting  short  my  sister's 
heroics.  "  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say ;  perhaps  you 
could ;  for  my  part,  of  all  the  characters  known  in  history 
or  fiction,  I  dislike  those  two  strong-minded  females  about 
the  most." 

"  I  know  exactly  the  kind  of  woman  you  like,"  says  Le- 
nore, stopping  suddenly  in  her  tramp,  tramp,  and  looking 
down  with  contemptuous  pink  face  on  her  prostrate  and 
sprawling  adversary. 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  53 

"  I  don't  well  see  how  you  can,"  replies  he,  throwing 
away  the  end  of  his  cigar,  and  burying  one  hand  in  the 
tawny  beard.  "  You  have  never  seen  my  womankind ;  you 
have  never  seen  me  with  any  woman." 

"  I  did  not  even  know  that  you  had  any  womankind," 
she  answers,  a  little  inquisitively. 

He  does  not  gratify  her  curiosity. 

"  What  is  exactly  the  kind  of  woman  I  like  ?  "  he  asks, 
raising  his  cold,  quick  eyes  to  hers. 

"Amelia  in  'Vanity  Fair,'"  she  answers,  promptly, 
with  a  pretty  air  of  triumph. 

"  I  knew  you  were  going  to  say  that,"  he  says,  calmly. 

"  But  it  is  true,  is  not  it  ? "  inquires  she,  eagerly. 

"  Not  in  the  least ;  you  never  made  a  worse  hit  in  your 
life." 

"  She  was  dollishly  pretty ;  she  cried  on  every  possible 
occasion ;  she  allowed  everybody  who  came  near  to  bully 
her ;  she  had  not  two  ideas  in  her  head.  With  all  these 
qualifications,  how  could  she  fail  to  be  charming  ?  "  inquires 
my  sister,  with  -withering  sarcasm. 

"  I  like  her  better  than  Jael,"  says  Le  Mesurier,  dog- 
gedly. 

•  "  So  do  I,"  cry  I,  tired  of  keeping  silence,  and  clattering 
the  teacups. 

"What  is  your  opinion,  West?"  asks  Le  Mesurier,  try- 
ing to  extract  the  cork  from  the  claret-jug  with  his  fingers. 
"  I  say,  is  there  a  corkscrew  anywhere  about  ?  Which  is 
your  beau  ideal  of  feminine  excellence — Heber  the  Kenite's 
amiable  wife  or  Amelia  Osborne  ?  " 

"  Frederick  has  no  beau  ideal  of  feminine  excellence," 
answers  Lenore  for  him,  with  an  ironical  smile ;  "  he  hardly 
knows  a  woman  when  he  sees  one  ;  his  bride  is  the  Church. 
Let  us  come  to  tea;  the  steam  is  beginning  to  lift  the  ket- 
tle's hat  off  at  last." 


54  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

As  I  have  before  remarked,  the  dinner-hour  at  Mdlle. 
Leroux's  pension  is  six  o'clock ;  so  it  is  at  the  Hotel  de  la 
Poste ;  indeed,  the  great  event  of  the  day  happens  through- 
out Dinan  at  the  same  hour.  To  avoid,  therefore,  losing 
our  daily  portion  of  ragged  beef,  raw  artichokes,  and  tripe 
(as  half-past  five  has  already  come  chiming  through  the 
chestnut-boughs  from  the  town-clock),  we  are  compelled 
rather  to  hurry  up  the  conclusion  of  our  al-fresco  feast. 
We  give  the  rest  of  our  French  roll-and-butter,  and  the 
remainder  of  our  tea  (which,  thanks  to  the  Ranee  and  Fred- 
erick, has  an  agreeably  mixed  medicinal  flavor  of  old  iron, 
alluvial  deposit,  and  smoke),  to  the  donkey-boy  aforemen- 
tioned, who,  careless  of  his  fair  charges,  and  leaving  them 
to  the  wild  wilt  of  their  asses,  has  been  haunting  us  as  a 
young  vulture  haunts  a  battle-field.  We  stand  on  the  flow- 
ered bank,  prepared  to  reembark.  The  boat  lies  so  still,  so 
still  on  the  windless  tide,  like  a  young  child  asleep  in  the 
sun ;  near  the  other  bank  a  man,  naked  to  the  waist,  is 
standing  up  to  his  middle  in  water,  pulling  bundles  of  rot- 
ten, ill-odorous  flax  out  of  the  river. 

"  I  shall  take  an  oar  going  home,"  says  Lenore,  with 
decision.  "  I  can  row." 

"  Please  don't,"  cry  I,  nervously ;  "  you  know  you  ai- 
ways  catch  crabs,  and  the  last  time  that  we  went  out  boat- 
ing on  the  Seine,  at  Rouen,  you  caught  such  a  big  one  that 
you  tumbled  backward  over  the  seat  and  all  but  upset  us." 

"  The  oars  were  too  short,"  she  answers,  looking  dis- 
pleased at  this  allusion  ;  "  it  might  have  happened  to  any 
one." 

"  One  crab  will  be  fatal  to  us  to-day,"  says  Le  Mesurier, 
laconically,  as  he  stands  holding  the  boat's  head  steady  for 
us  to  get  in. 

"  If  people  will  make  boats  no  wider  than  knife-blades 
or  paper-cutters  they  cannot  blame  me  if  they  upset,"  re- 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  55 

turns  she,  carelessly,  giving  him  her  hand  and  preparing  to 
step  in.  To  my  surprise — I  might  almost  say  alarm — by 
the  very  hand  she  gives  him  he  detains  her. 

"  Miss  Lenore,  if  you  get  in  will  you  promise  to  sit 
still?" 

"  I  never  promise,"  she  answers,  lightly,  leaving  her 
hand  peaceably  in  his.  "  When  I  was  a  child  I  never 
would  promise  to  be  a  good  girl,  because  I  knew  I  never 
should  be." 

"  If  you  will  not  promise,  you  really  must  not  get  in." 

"  Must  not !  "  cries  she,  giving  her  head  an  angry  toss. 
"  Who  says  must  not  f  Must  not  is  an  ugly  word." 

"  Not  so  ugly  as  must  in  a  woman's  mouth,"  getting 
rather  angry,  too. 

"  May  I  ask  whose  boat  this  is  ?  "  loftily. 

"  I  think  you  said  M»  Panache  was  the  name  of  the  fel- 
low ;  but  I  am  not  a  good  hand  at  French  surnames." 

"If  it  is  M.  Panache's  boat,  what  right  or  authority 
have  you  over  it,  may  I  ask  ?  " 

"  None  whatever,"  he  answers,  quietly,  "  except  pos- 
session, and  that  is  nine  points  of  the  law." 

"  Did  he  lend  it  to  you  ?  " 

"  On  the  other  hand,  did  he  lend  it  to  you  f  " 

"  Mr.  Le  Mesurier,  I'm  not  joking." 

"  Miss  Lenore,  Pm  not  joking." 

"  What  business  can  it  be  of  yours  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  see  your  sister  drowned,"  with  an  in- 
vidiously-perceptible accent  on  the  two  words. 

"  You  do  not  care  whether  I  drown  or  not?"  snatching 
away  her  hand,  and  flashing  annihilating  looks  at  him. 
They  do  not  seem  to  do  him  much  harm. 

*  We  discussed  that  question  fully  before,"  he  answers, 
rather  bored. 

"Please  promise,  like  a  dear  child,"   cry  I,  coaxingly, 


56  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

from  the  bows,  where  I  am  seated  uneasily  under  my  yel- 
low umbrella. 

"  Be  rational,"  says  Le  Mesurier,  looking  at  her  gravely, 
yet  with  a  suspicion  of  laughter  about  the  eyes.  "  I  prom- 
ised to  row  your  sister  home ;  is  not  it  only  natural  and 
Christian  that  I  should  wish  to  spare  her  the  abject  terror 
she  suffered  this  afternoon  ?  " 

"  I  will  not  promise,"  says  Lenore,  doggedly,  and 
breathing  hard.  "  I  will  not  be  dictated  to  by  a  stranger. 
I  will  walk  home." 

So  saying,  she  turns  sharply  away,  and  begins  to  walk 
quickly  down  the  glaring,  sun-baked  towing-path. 

"  Mr.  Le  Mesurier,  Mr.  Le  Mesurier  !  "  cry  I,  jumping 
up,  and  almost  bringing  on  the  catastrophe  about  which  we 
have  been  squabbling ;  "  let  her  have  her  own  way.  She 
has  never  been  thwarted  in  her  life ;  we  have  always  let 
her  have  her  own  will  from  a  child  !  " 

"  For  fear  that  she  would  break  a  blood-vessel  if  she 
had  not,"  replies  he,  smiling.  "  She  told  me  so  as  we 
came  along. —  Miss  Lenore,"  rising  his  voice  a  little. 
"  Miss  Lenore  !  we  throw  ourselves  on  your  mercy." 

"  Come  back,  come  back,"  cry  I,  excitedly,  shaking  my 
umbrella  ;  "  you  will  get  a  sunstroke ! " 

But  Lenore  is  too  indignant  to  answer. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

WHAT    THE     AUTHOR     SAYS. 

THE  blandness  born  of  after-dinnerhood  is  upon  all  Di- 
nan ;  everybody  is  as  suave  as  fed  lions ;  a  child  might 
play  with  them.  The  moon  is  holding  her  great  yellow 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  57 

candle  above  the  town,  and  ugly  black  night  skulks  away 
in  corners.  On  the  other  side  of  the  Place  St.  Louis,  the 
old  priest  is  sitting  at  the  bottom  of  his  garden,  reading 
his  breviary  by  moonlight.  His  white  house's  green  shut- 
ters, that  have  been  closed  all  day  to  keep  out  the  dust  and 
glare,  are  just  opened  to  let  in  the  evening  cool.  The  mys- 
terious family  in  the  large  yellow  house  a  little  lower  down, 
who  always  go  out  driving  in  a  ramshackle,  old,  close  car- 
riage, with  all  the  windows  up,  about  sundown,  are  setting 
off  on.  their  nightly  expedition.  The  immense  shadows  of 
their  horses  are  running  up  the  face  of  the  Pension  Leroux ; 
the  heads  and  ears  reach  to  the  salon  windows.  Madame 
Lange,  Cesar,  and  Pe>oline,  are  out.  They  have  gone  faire 
de  la  musique  chez  M.  le  Capitaine  O^Flannigan^  a  broken- 
down  Irishman,  who  tells  the  credulous  natives  that  he  has 
been  in  the  Guards,  and  who,  with  his  numerous  progeny, 
lives  in  the  graceful  retirement  of  an  entresol  in  the  Rue 
de  St.-Malo.  The  Herricks  are  therefore  in  undisputed 
possession  of  the  salon.  The  piano  belongs  to  Madame 
Lange,  and  she  mostly  locks  it  when  she  goes  out.  She 
has  forgotten  to  do  so  to-day,  and  Frederick  is  committing 
piracies  upon  it.  Like  most  little  men  with  small,  puny 
voices,  he  is  fond  of  ferociously  warlike  and  rollicking  Bac- 
chanalian songs,  on  the  same  principle,  I  suppose,  which 
often  induces  a  Hercules  or  a  Samson  to  express  in  music 
his  wish  to  be  a  butterfly — 

"  In  his  love's  bosom  for  to  lie  " — 

or  a  daisy,  or  a  swallow.  Frederick  has  just  been  giving 
faint  utterance  to  heathenish  berserker  sentiments,  such  as 
that  to  fight  all  day  and  drink  all  night  are  the  only  occupa- 
tions really  worthy  a  Christian  gentlemen's  attention ;  and 
now,  leaning  forward  on  the  music-stool,  and  peering  near- 
sightedly through  his  spectacles  at  the  score,  he  is  piping — 


68  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  Soho  !  soho  !  said  the  bold  Marco  !  " 

Mr.  Le  Mesurier — he  is  here,  too ;  it  is  a  few  days  after  the 
tea-picnic — is  leaning  out  of  the  window,  smiling  to  him- 
self, and  whistling  inaudible  accompaniments  to  the  singer. 
He  is  not  gigantic  enough  to  wish  to  be  a  butterfly,  and 
too  big  to  insist  upon  being  a  buccaneer.  So  he  does  not 
sing  at  all.  Jemima  is  smiling,  too,  and  beating  time  with 
head  and  foot,  as  she  knits.  Lenore  is  not  in  the  room  at 
all ;  she  is  sitting  on  the  frontdoor  step,  rather  to  the  dis- 
gust of  Stephanie,  whose  favorite  seat  it  is,  where  she  sits 
and  chatters  rough  guttural  Breton  to  her  neighbors,  in  a 
clean  stiff-winged  cap,  when  her  hard  day's  work  is  done. 
Lenore  is  chatting  to  nobody ;  she  is  only  staring  at  the 
moon. 

"  Does  your  sister  sing  ? "  asked  Le  Mesurier,  turning 
away  from  the  window. 

"  Yes  ;  rather  well — when  she  chooses"  replies  Jemima, 
rhythmically,  still  nodding  time. 

"  Would  she  sing  now,  if  one  asked  her  ?  " 

"  Probably  not ;  but  I  can  but  try. — Lenore !  Lenore ! " 
(going  to  the  window  and  looking  down).  "  Come  in  out 
of  the  damp,  child ;  you'll  catch  your  death  of  cold." 

"  Never  did  such  a  thing  in  my  life,  my  dear." 

"  What  are  you  doing  ?  " 

"  Only  baying  at  the  moon,  as  Mademoiselle  Leroux's 
poodle  did  last  night." 

"  Come  up  here  and  sing." 

"  Could  not  think  of  superseding  the  present  able  per- 
formers." 

"  He  has  stopped,"  puts  in  Paul,  leaning  his  arms  on 
the  sill,  and  craning  his  brown  neck  out.  "  He  is  exhaust- 
ed. The  bold  Marco  takes  a  great  deal  out  of  a  fellow — 
does  not  he,  West?" 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  59 

As  he  speaks,  he  turns  away  again,  laughing,  and,  so 
laughing,  forgets  the  request,  about  which  he  had  never 
been  much  in  earnest.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  passes. 
Frederick  is  still  singing  ;  the  billiard-balls'  gentle  click 
from  the  cafe  next  door  mixes  with  his  voice. 

"  Lenore  !  Lenore !  "  cries  Jemima,  rising,  knitting  in 
hand,  and  leaning  a  second  time  out  of  the  wide  case- 
ment. 

"  '  Onora !  Onora  !  her  mother  is  calling. 

She  sits  at  the  lattice  and  hears  the  dew  falling, 
Drop  after  drop  from  the  sycamores,  laden 
With  dew  as  with  blossom,  and  calls  home  the  maiden. 
Night  cometh,  Onora '  " — 

says  Le  Mesurier,  spouting.  "  Onora,  alias  Miss  Lenore, 
went  down  the  place  toward  the  fosse  five  minutes  ago." 

"Alone?" 

"Alone." 

"In  that  demi-toilette  gown?"  (with  a  horrified  ac- 
cent). 

"  Was  it  a  demi-toilette  gown  ? "  asks  Paul,  with  the 
crass  ignorance  of  mankind. 

"  I  mean  without  any  shawl,  or  wrap,  or  cloak  of  any 
kind  ?  " 

"  She  went  just  as  she  was  when  she  was  sitting  on 
the  door-step." 

"  Let  me  run  and  bring  her  back ! "  cries  West,  eagerly, 
jumping  up  and  snatching  his  hat,  prepared  to  rush  forth 
on  his  quest  with  devouter  haste  than  ever  Sir  Galahad 
showed  in  the  pursuit  of  the  Holy  Grail. 

"  Oh,  you  know  she  never  pays  the  slightest  attention 
to  you,"  answers  Jemima,  a  little  impatiently,  forgetting 
her  politeness  in  agitation,  "  nor  to  me  either,  for  the  mat- 
ter of  that — Mr.  Le  Mesurier,  I  think  she  minds  you  more 


60  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

than  most  people — I  don't  know  why — would  you  mind 
trying  to  persuade  her  to  come  in  out  of  the  dew  ?  " 

"  Delighted !  "  says  Le  Mesurier,  with  a  ready  lie,  walk- 
ing toward  the  door ;  "  and,  if  fair  means  fail,  am  I  to  em- 
ploy foul?" 

Lenore  is  not  in  the  fosse.  The  gray  towers  of  Duch- 
esse  Anne's  castle  rise  beside  it  like  a  faint,  dark  dream, 
black  as  Erebus,  quiet  as  death ;  the  tree-boughs  spread 
above  him ;  beneath  them,  on  a  black-and-silver  path,  he 
walks  along — walks  along  slowly,  enjoying  his  cigarette, 
and  in  no  particular  hurry  to  overtake  his  Holy  Grail.  On 
and  on  to  the  Place  du  Guesclin,  and  there,  a  long  way 
from  him,  he  sees  the  white  glimmer  of  a  woman's  dress. 
He  walks  up  to  the  glimmer :  he  has  found  his  Holy  Grail. 

"  Your  sister  sent  me  to  ask  you  to  come  in  out  of  the 
dew,"  he  says,  rather  stiffly,  and  delivering  his  message  with 
the  exactitude  of  an  Homeric  messenger.  He  has  come 
up  rather  behind  her ;  she  did  not  perceive  his  approach. 

"  Tell  my  sister  to  mind  her  own  business  ! "  she  cries, 
startled  and  angry. 

"  I  suppose  she  thinks  that  you  are  her  own  business," 
he  answers,  coldly. 

"  At  all  events,  I  am  not  yours"  she  says,  rudely,  yet 
laughing. 

Without  another  word,  he  turns  to  go. 

"  Let  her  catch  her  death  of  cold  !  No  great  loss  if  she 
does ! "  he  says  to  himself,  beginning  to  light  a  second 
cigarette.  He  has  not  gone  three  yards,  when  he  hears  a 
step  behind  him.  A  charming  face,  with  little  waves  of 
moonlight  rippling  over  it,  smiles  up  at  him. 

"  Why  are  you  going  ?  "  she  asks,  in  a  low  voice,  as  if 
saying  something  she  was  half  ashamed  of. 

"  I  am  not  a  spaniel,  or  a  Frederick  West." 

"  I  was  rude,  I  suppose  "  (hanging  her  head). 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  61 

No  answer. 

"  I  often  am,  I  fancy." 

"  Very  often  "  (emphatically). 

"  It  is  my  way." 

"  It  is  a  very  bad  way." 

"  I  do  not  think  it  is  quite  all  my  fault  either,"  she 
says,  almost  humbly ;  "  it  is  partly  theirs — I  mean  Mima's 
and  Frederick's,  and  my  other  sister's.  When  I  was  a 
child,  if  I  said  any  thing  rude,  they  only  laughed,  and 
thought  it  clever.  I  wish  they  had  not,  now." 

"  So  do  I." 

"  It  makes  people  hate  one  a  good  deal,"  says  the  girl, 
naively.  "  This  year  we  went  to  a  ball  that  the  Fifth  Dra- 
goon Guards  gave,  and  several  of  them  did  not  ask  me  to 
dance  once,  because  I  had  said  things  about  them.  I  told 
one  that  he  was  like  a  pig  set  up  on  his  hind-legs.  So  he 
was  ;  but  he  never  came  near  me  all  the  evening  in  conse- 
quence." 

"  Poor  fellow  ! "  says  Le  Mesurier,  laughing.  "  You 
could  hardly  blame  him." 

"  You  are  not  angry  now — you  are  laughing !  "  cries 
Lenore,  joyously.  "  Tell  me  " — coming  confidentially  close 
to  him — "  is  the  bold  Marco  still  saying  '  Soho  ?  '  " 

"  He  was  when  I  left." 

"  Do  not  let  us  go  home,  then  ;  let  us  sit  on  this  bench 
and  talk." 

So  they  sit  on  a  bench  with  a  back  to  it,  in  the  deep 
shade  cast  by  a  double  row  of  young  lime-trees.  The 
heavy,  sweet  lime-flowers  sway  above  their  heads — sway 
so  low  as  almost  to  touch  their  lips  and  cheeks.  The  lights 
from  the  cafe"  arid  the  Hotel  de  la  Poste  opposite  make  lit- 
tle red  reflections  on  their  clothes  and  faces.  Three  Eng- 
lishmen are  coming  back  from  fishing,  with  rod  and  basket 
in  their  hands — two  very  tall  Englishmen,  an$  a  very  little 


62  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

one.  At  something  that  the  little  one  says,  they  all  laugh 
uproariously.  It  seems  a  sin  to  speak  above  one's  breath 
in  this  holy  moonshine.  Two  Frenchmen  and  three  women 
saunter  by  in  the  deep  shade  ;  it  takes  a  little  effort  to 
count  how  many  there  are.  Whether  they  are  old  or 
young,  pretty  or  ugly,  who  but  a  bat  can  tell  in  this  fra- 
grant gloom  ? 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  Miss  Lenore  ?  "  asks  Paul, 
presently,  peering  a  little  inquisitively  into  his  companion's 
face,  as  she  gazes  at  the  stars  that  are  trembling  like  heav- 
enly shining  fruits  between  the  dusk  tree-boughs. 

"I  am  thinking,"  she  answers,  a  little  dreamily,  "of 
how  the  Ranee  is  looking  now,  at  this  minute,  down  at 
Lehon,  as  it  laps  against  those  ivied  steps  where  the  monks 
used  to  bathe." 

"  Shall  I  row  you  down  there  to  see  ?  "  he  asks,  banter- 
ingly.  She  springs  to  her  feet  in  a  moment. 

"  Will  you  ?  Do  you  mean  really  f  "  she  cries,  eagerly. 
"Ah,  no  ! "  (her  voice  falling  with  a  disappointed  cadence). 
"  I  see  by  your  eyes  that  you  did  not  mean  it — that  you 
were  only  tantalizing  me." 

He  feels  her  thin  draperies  wafted  against  his  knees  in 
the  slow  night-wind,  as  she  stands  before  him ;  the  breath 
of  the  lime-flowers  comes  passing  sweet  to  his  nostrils.  It 
is  all  but  dark. 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  tantalize  you,"  he  answers,  simply. 
"  I  will  take  you,  and  welcome,  if  you  wish ;  only  what 
will  your  sister  say  ?  " 

"  She  will  say,  '  Lenore,  are  you  mad  ? '  She  always 
says  that.  Perhaps  I  am  mad  ;  I  sometimes  think  so." 

"  But  what  time  of  night  is  it,  do  you  suppose  ?  Is  not 
it  nearly  bedtime?"  he  asks,  taking  out  his  watch,  and 
trying  to  decipher  the  hour  by  the  little  crimson  gleams 
from  the  cafe. 


WHAT  TEE  AUTHOR  SATS.  63 

"  Bedtime !  "  she  cries,  impatiently.      "  I  feel  as  if  I 
shall  like  never  to  go  to  bed  again  as  long  as  I  live." 
"  '  What  has  night  to  do  with  sleep  ?  '  " 

"  All  right,  then — come  along,"  says  he,  recklessly,  see- 
ing that  he  is  in  for  it,  and  that  it  is  not  his  business  to  find 
his  companion  in  prudish ,  scruples,  which  do  not  seem  in- 
clined to  occur  to  her.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  more,  and  no 
woman's  dress  glimmers  white  from  the  shaded  bench  in 
the  Place  du  Guesclin ;  it  is  glimmering,  instead,  in  M. 
Panache's  little  cockboat  on  the  broad,  bright,  Ranee. 
Death's  lovely  brother,  Sleep,  is  ruling  over  every  thing ; 
even  the  river  sleeps,  and  no  passing  breeze  breaks  its 
slumber.  The  moon  comes  up  behind  the  chestnut-woods, 
and  the  water  lies  smooth  as  glass ;  while  the  trees,  and 
the  tremulous  grasses,  and  the  great  squadron  of  broad  ox- 
eyes — yellow  sun-disks  with  white  rays  round  them — live 
again  in  the  black  depths,  where  the  moon  also  lies  drowned, 
like  a  pale,  bright  maiden.  They  are  floating  along  so  stilly, 
so  stilly,  on  the  opaline  flood  !  The  little  boat  hardly 
moves.  Lenore  is  sitting  iji  the  stern.  The  red  cloak 
Paul  brought  her  is  drooping  from  her  shoulders ;  pearly 
lights  are  playing  about  her  hair,  and  her  grave,  fair  face, 
and  her  wonderful  eyes. 

"  If  one  were  fond  of  her,  one  would  be  in  the  seventh 
heaven,  I  suppose,"  says  Paul,  cynically  to  himself.  But 
even  though  one  is  not  fond  of  her — even  though  one  dis- 
approves of  her — even  though  she  is  not  one's  style — yet 
flesh  is  weak,  and  blood  is  blood ;  and  in  cool  manhood,  as 
in  hot  youth,  blood  still  tingles,  and  pulses  throb,  with  the 
seductive  enervation  of  night,  proximity,  and  great  fairness. 

"  Shall  I  sing  ?  "  asks  the  girl,  almost  in  a  whisper — 

"  '  Sing !  sing !  what  will  I  sing  ? 

The  cat  ran  away  with  the  pudding-bag  string.'  " 


64  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  By  all  means,  if  you  like." 

"What  shall  I  sing,  really? — English,  French,  Ger- 
man, Italian — " 

"Whatever  you  please.  The  smallest  contribution 
thankfully  received." 

She  leans  her  round  white  elbow  on  her  lap  for  a  moment 
or  two,  and  her  head  on  her  hand,  in  reflection  ;  then  the 
pensive  look  fades  out  of  her  face,  and  a  dare-devil  smile 
flashes  over  it. 

"  You  are  a  civilian,  are  not  you  ?  "  she  asks  abruptly. 

"I  am  now.     Why?" 

"  You  cannot  take  my  song  personally,  that  is  all.  Lis- 
ten ;  I  am  beginning." 

This  is  Lenore's  song,  as  it  rings  gayly  out  over  the 
dumb  woods  and  waters.  Most  of  you,  my  young  friends, 
know  it  well  enough : 

"  Oh  que  j'aime  les  militaires  ! 
J'aime  les  militaires ; 

J'aime  leur  uniforme  coquet, 

Leur  moustache  et  leur  plumet. 

Je  sais — ce  que  Je  youdrais. 
Je  voudrais  etre  cantiniere. 

Avec  eux  toujours  je  serais, 

Et  je  les  griserais. 
Pres  d'eux,  vaillante  et  16g&re 

Aux  combats  je  m'elancerais — " 

She  breaks  off  abruptly. 

"  Do  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  Immensely." 

"  That  means,  not  at  all." 

"  It  is  a  song  that  I  was  always  particularly  fond  of, 
and  I  think  the  line  in  which  you  express  your  intention 
of  making  your  friends  drunk  peculiarly  happy,"  he  an- 
swers, ironically. 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SATS.  65 

She  looks  down,  half-ashamed. 

"  The  ideal  woman  would  not  have  sung  such  a  song,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

"  Probably  not." 

"  Tell  me,"  she  cries,  impulsively,  "  is  the  ideal  woman 
clothed  with  flesh  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Is  she  some  living,  breathing  woman,  that  you  have 
in  your  mind's  eye  ?  " 

He  hesitates  a  little,  and  also  reddens — unless  the  moon 
belies  him — a  very  little. 

"  Since  you  ask  me  point-blank — well,  she  is." 

The  girl  turns  her  fair  head  aside,  and  droops  it  over 
the  stream,  through  which  she  draws  her  hand  listlessly. 

"  Tell  me  what  she  is  like ;  I  wish  to  know,"  she  says 
presently,  very  softly. 

Silence  for  a  few  minutes  ;  then  Paul  begins : 

"  She  is  not  at  all  clever — of  the  two,  I  think,  she  is 
rather  dull.  She  does  not  say  much,  but  she  always  thinks 
before  she  speaks." 

"  What  an  intolerable  prig  she  must  be !  " 

"  She  talks  about  things,  not  people.  She  is  very  lov- 
ing-" 

"  Pooh  !  "  interrupts  Lenore,  contemptuously.     "  What 
woman  is  not  ?     It  is  our  besetting  sin.     What  a  list  of 
attractions !     But  tell  me — tell  me,  is  she  handsome — as 
handsome    as — as — as  I  am  ?  "    she    ends,  laughing  con- 
fusedly, and  growing  scarlet. 

The  water  falls  drip,  drip,  in  long,  lazy  drops,  from  the 
idle  oars. 

"  Are  you  handsome  ?  "  he  asks,  gravely — not  with  im- 
pertinence, but  as  though  wishing  for  information — and,  so 
asking,  looks  at  her  long  and  steadily  in  the  moonlight — a 
familiarity  of  which  she  cannot  complain,  as  she  has  brought 


66  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

it  on  herself.  "  Well,  yes "  (drawing  his  breath  rather 
hard),  "  I  suppose  you  are." 

She  laughs  again,  but  constrainedly. 

"  But  waiving  the  question  of  my  beauty — is  she  hand- 
some— pretty  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  answered,  slowly.  "  Some  one 
asked  me  that  question  the  other  day,  and  I  said  I  did  not 
know.  I  do  not." 

Lenore  leans  back  in  the  stern,  with  the  rudder-string 
in  her  hand. 

"Describe  her  to  me.  I  will  tell  you  in  a  moment 
whether  she  is  or  not." 

He  stares  absently  over  her  head,  at  the  viaduct,  strid- 
ing gigantic  across  the  valley — at  the  town,  with  its  house- 
roofs  white  as  silver  sheets  in  the  moonshine. 

"  She  is  small,"  he  begins,  slowly,  "  very  small !  not 
more  than  five  foot  one,  and  thin — rather  too  thin,  per- 
haps," his  eyes  resting,  as  he  speaks,  for  an  instant,  with 
reluctant  admiration  on  the  superbly-developed  figure  of 
his  vis-d-vis.  "  Her  eyes  are — "  he  stops  short,  in  want 
of  an  epithet. 

"  Bright !  "  suggests  Lenore. 

"  Bright !  No  ! "  cries  he,  energetically  repelling  her 
suggestion  writh  scorn.  "  I  hate  your  bright  eyes.  They 
always  look  metallic  ;  hers  look  at  you  as  if  they  were  look- 
ing through  a  mist,  and  they  have  a  dark,  shady  hue  under 
them." 

"  Belladonna !  "  suggests  Lenore  again,  with  supercil- 
ious brevity. 

"  Some  one  said  to  me  the  other  day  that  they  were 
like  the  eyes  of  a  shot  partridge,"  he  continued,  not  heed- 
ing her  ;  "  so  they  are." 

"  What  a  lackadaisical,  dying-duck  sort  of  idea ! " 

"  She  is  pale — as  pale  as — as — as — a  lily  ! "  he  coutin- 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  67 

ued,  unable  to  find  a  new  white  simile.  "  That  clear  yet 
opaque  look — " 

"  Like  a  hard-boiled  egg ! "  interrupts  Lenore,  scorn- 
fully. 

"  Not  in  the  least  like  a  hard-boiled  egg  ! "  retorts  he, 
nettled,  and  the  river  of  his  eloquence  suddenly  dried. 

"  I  do  not  know  whether  you  are  aware  of  it,"  says  the 
girl,  with  a  heightened  color,  "  but  you  have  described  a 
person  in  every  respect  the  exact  opposite  of  me." 

He  gives  a  half  smile. 

"  Have  I  ?  I  apologize.  I  really  was  not  aware  of  it. 
I  only  did  as  you  bade  me." 

He  pulls  a  few  yards  further  on  ;  no  sound  but  the  oars 
turning  in  the  rowlocks — the  plash,  plash,  of  the  smitten 
water.  Lehon  Abbey  lifts  roofless  gables  to  the  mighty 
sky,  and  Lehon  Castle  its  round  dim  towers,  whence  never 
a  knight  will  look  again.  The  water-fairies  have  been  sup- 
ping on  the  river  to-night :  they  have  left  their  rare  white 
water-lily  cups  and  broad  green  platters  behind  them. 

"  Stop  rowing,"  cries  Lenore,  imperiously,  "  I  want  to 
gather  some  of  those  lilies." 

He  obeys.  Motionless  they  lie  among  the  great  round 
leaves  and  white  chalices.  She  leans  back  over  the  stern, 
and  pulls  with  her  strong,  white  hands  at  the  tough,  long 
stalks. 

"  What  will  you  do  with  them  ?  "  asks  Le  Mesurier,  in- 
dolently, his  unwilling  eyes  taking  in  the  lazy  grace  of  the 
half-recumbent  form,  of  the  large,  white,  outstretched  arm, 
at  which  a  happy  moonbean  is  catching ;  "  they  have  not 
at  all  a  nice  smell  in  water — faint  and  sickly — they  will 
only  die." 

No  answer. 

"  What  do  you  want  with  them  ?  "  he  asks,  rising,  he 
does  not  know  why,  and  stepping  over  the  little  seat  that 
intervenes  between  them. 


68  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  You  will  see,"  she  answers,  briefly. 

They  are  so  wet — so  wet,  as  they  lie  in  her  lap.  He 
watches  her  as  she  dries  one  dripping  bud  with  her  pocket- 
handkerchief,  and  then,  with  quick,  deft  fingers,  places  it 
closed  and  sleepy  in  her  hair. 

"  Do  you  like  it  ?  "  she  asks,  in  a  half  whisper,  raising 
her  eyes  to  his,  with  a  slow,  bright  smile. 

How  still  it  is  !  Not  a  sound  ;  every  thing  is  asleep  ; 
only  the  wakeful  moon  sees  his  cold,  quick  eyes  flash.  He 
would  have  laughed  this  morning,  if  you  had  told  him  that 
Lenore  Herrick  could  make  his  heart  beat  as  it  is  beating 
now. 

"  What  would  you  have  me  say  ?  "  he  answers,  in  the 
same  key  in  which  she  spoke.  "  If  I  did  not  like  it,  would 
you  have  me  tell  you  so  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  do  like  it,"  he  says,  half  angrily ;  "  you  know  I  do ; 
you  knew  I  did  before  you  asked  me." 

"  Take  it  then,"  she  says,  with  a  low  laugh,  holding  it 
out  to  him.  "  Keep  it  as  a  memento  of  the  fast  girl  who 
would  go  out  boating  with  you,  against  your  will,  at  ten 
o'clock  at  night — of  the  girl  who  may  be  very  good  fun, 
if  one  goes  in  for  that  sort  of  thing,  but  is  not  your 
style!" 

He  reddens. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  You  will  not  have  it  ?    Well,  then,  here  it  goes  !  " 

As  she  speaks  she  flings  the  blossom  away,  far  out  into 
the  river.  It  fall  with  a  little  flop,  and  a  little  gleam  of 
broken  silver,  into  the  water,  and  so  floats  down  to  Dinan. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  cries,  eagerly.  "  How  im- 
patient you  are  !  I  did  want  it ;  I  held  out  my  hand  for 
it.  I  will  have  it  yet !  " 

So  saying  he  snatches  up  one  of  the  oars,  and  makes 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  69 

frantic  lunges  with  it  at  the  little  valueless  prize.  It  is 
exactly  three  inches  too  far  off  for  him  to  reach.  Paul's 
arms  are  long,  and  he  hates  being  beaten.  Unmindful  of 
the  tiltuppy  nature  of  little  cockboats,  he  leans  farther  and 
farther  over  the  side.  It  is  almost  within  his  reach — it  is 
quite  within  his  reach  ;  he  has  got  it — has  he,  though  ? 

"  Take  care  !  take  care  !  "  cries  Lenore,  wildly  ;  but  it 
is  too  late.  In  another  moment  M.  Panache's  boat  is  float- 
ing away,  bottom  upward,  after  the  water-lily,  and  two 
people  are  struggling  and  splashing  in  the  moonlit  Ranee. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

WHAT     THE     AUTHOR     SAYS. 

Paul  rises  to  the  surface,  sputtering  and  blow- 
ing unintentional  bubbles,  his  first  thought  naturally  is, 
"  Where  is  Lenore  ? "  At  about  three  yards'  distance 
from  him  he  sees  something  white.  He  swims  toward  it, 
and  catches  at  it ;  it  is  Lenore.  Feeling  his  grasp,  she 
flings  out  her  two  arms  wildly,  and  clutches  him  spasmod- 
ically round  the  neck. 

"  Loose  me  ! "  he  cries,  breathlessly,  still  sputtering. 
"  Lenore,  Lenore  !  you  will  drown  us  both  ! " 

But  Lenore  is  too  much  blinded  and  deafened  by  the 
water  to  pay  any  heed  to  his  remonstrances.  She  only 
clasps  him  the  more  convulsively.  With  a  strong  effort  he 
manages  to  unlock  her  arms,  and,  grasping  her  firmly  with 
one  hand,  with  the  other  strikes  out  for  shore. 

Swimming  in  one's  clothes  is  never  pleasant,  but  swim- 
ming in  one's  clothes  with  only  one  hand  at  one's  disposal 
— the  other  being  occupied  in  supporting  a  perfectly  help- 


TO  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

less,  inert  woman — is  more  unpleasant  still.  Happily  it 
does  not  last  long ;  the  adventure  is  not  of  heroic  dimen- 
sions. Not  half  a  dozen  yards  from  the  fatal  lilies  the  bul- 
rushes have  advanced  their  thick  green  standards,  and, 
where  the  bulrushes  are,  water  is  shallow  and  footing 
easily  gained.  The  flags  and  the  rushes  swish  against  his 
face  and  buffet  it  rudely  as  he  scrambles  through  them, 
half  dragging,  half  carrying  his  companion  through  the 
deep  river-mud  and  the  chilly  midnight  waters.  Having 
deposited  her  in  a  living  bundle  on  the  bank,  he  sits  down 
beside  her  and  pants.  As  for  her,  she  is  a  little  stunned 
by  the  shock  of  the  plunging  water;  that  is  all.  She  is 
not  wont  to  faint,  and  has  not  fainted  now.  Presently  she 
sits  up,  and,  pushing  her  dripping  hair  out  of  her  bewil- 
dered eyes,  says,  gaspingly : 

"  Don't  scold  me ;  it  was  you  that  did  it." 

"  I  know  it  was,"  he  answers,  as  distinctly  as  the  chat- 
tering of  his  teeth  will  let  him. 

"  Well,  you  did  not  let  me  drown  after  all,  you  see,"  she 
says,  with  a  smile  that,  though  forlorn  and  drenched,  is  still 
half  malicious. 

"Well,  no;  not  this  time." 

They  look  at  one  another  for  a  minute,  then  both  burst 
into  a  simultaneous  fit  of  violent  laughter. 

"  What  a  ridiculous  drowned  rat  you  do  look ! "  cries 
she,  politely. 

"  The  same  to  you,"  he  answers,  grimly,  as  he  sits  drip- 
ping dismally  on  the  dry  June  grass. 

"  What  have  you  done  with  your  hat  ?  " 

"  The  same  as  you  have  done  with  yours,  I  fancy." 

"  And  Mima's  Connemara  cloak  ?  " 

"  Half-way  back  to  Connemara  by  now." 

"  I  have  lost  one  of  my  shoes,"  says  the  girl,  half  crying, 
"  and  the  other  is  full  of  mud." 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  VI 

She  looks  up  at  him  piteously,  as  innocently  as  a  baby 
might  do.  The  Ranee  has  washed  all  the  coquetry  out  of 
her  eyes,  on  whose  long  lashes  the  river-drcps  are  hanging. 

"  How  shall  I  ever  get  home  ?  I  shall  have  to  hop  all 
the  way." 

"  Perhaps  I  might  carry  you,"  he  says,  not  unkindly, 
leaning  forward  to  examine  the  unlucky  shoe ;  while  his 
nose,  and  his  beard,  and  his  short  hair,  water  the  buttercups 
and  refresh  them. 

"  Carry  me  !  "  she  cries,  derisively.  "  Why,  I  weigh 
nine  stone  eight !  I  might  as  well  talk  of  carrying  you  !  " 

He  is  not  particularly  anxious  to  carry  her,  and  does  not 
repeat  his  offer. 

"  How  cold  I  am !  "  she  says,  shuddering.  "  How  it 
runs  down  one's  back,  does  not  it  ?  I  wish  one's  clothes 
would  not  stick  to  one  like  court-plaster.  I  am  sure  it  will 
be  the  death  of  me." 

"  By-the-by,"  cries  he,  a  brilliant  idea  striking  him,  and 
beginning  to  search  frantically  in  his  coat-pockets  (we,  in 
Dinan,  never  dress  for  dinner,  therefore  he  is  still  in  his 
shooting-jacket),  "if  it  is  not  gone — no,  thank  God !  here 
it  is ! " — drawing  out  a  little  silver  flask — "  take  a  pull  at 
it,  it  will  keep  the  life  in  you." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Brandy." 

"  Will  it  make  me  drunk  fn  she  asks,  gravely  holding 
it  in  her  hand,  and  trembling  all  over  like  a  smooth-haired 
terrier  on  a  frosty  day. 

He  laughs.  "No  such  luck.  It  would  be  the  best 
thing  that  could  possibly  happen  to  you  if  it  did ;  but  it 
will  not,  I  am  afraid.  Go  on." 

She  obeys,  and  drinks.  It  burns  her  throat,  but  her 
teeth  become  a  shade  less  vocal.  He  follows  her  example ; 
and  then,  jumping  to  his  feet,  gives-himself  a  prodigious 


72  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

shake,  like  a  Newfoundland  who  has  just  deposited  the  re- 
covered stick  at  his  master's  feet. 

"  Come  on,"  he  says ;  "  we  had  better  be  getting  home 
as  quick  as  we  can.  Let  us  pray  that  we  may  meet  no 
one  !  I  feel  uncommonly  small,  do  not  you  ?  " 

"  Uncommonly  1 "  replies  Lenore,  with  assenting  em- 
phasis. 

"  Give  me  your  hand,  and  let  me  help  you  up." 

She  does  as  he  bids  her,  and  as  she  rises  to  her  feet  a 
fresh  deluge  rustles,  drips,  pours  down  from  her. 

"  How  heavy  water  is ! "  she  says,  staggering.  "  I 
have  half  the  Ranee  about  me.  I  feel  like  the  woman  who 
was  killed  by  the  weight  of  her  jewels." 

"  Stay ;  let  me  wring  out  your  clothes  a  little  for  you." 

He  kneels  before  her  on  the  grass,  and  with  both  hands 
twists  and  strains,  and  wrings  her  thin  flabby  gown  and 
her  soaked  petticoats,  as  a  laundress  might. 

"  There,  is  that  better  ?" 

"  Yes,  thanks.  I  think  so — a  little,"  replies  she,  doubt- 
fully. 

"Come  on,  then," — employing  the  invariable  phrase 
with  which  a  Briton  embarks  upon  any  undertaking,  from 
a  walk  with  his  sweetheart  upward  to  a  Balaklava  charge. 
Without  more  speech,  they  begin  to  tramp  along  the  tow- 
ing-path, leaving  behind  them  a  track  as  of  a  thunder- 
shower  or  a  leaky  water-cart.  On  to  the  landing-stage,  up 
the  steep  steps  to  the  highway.  At  the  corner  of  the 
silent,  shining  road,  a  great  rock  abutting  casts  a  sharp, 
black  shadow ;  and  out  of  this  shadow,  and  into  the  light, 
come  two  people,  running  in  disorderly  haste. 

"  Your  sister  and  West  to  the  rescue,"  says  Le  Mesu- 
rier,  speaking  for  the  first  time  since  they  set  off  home- 
ward. 

"  My  long-lost   Frederick ! "  says  Lenore,  with    grim 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  73 

merriment ;  "  flying  to  the  riverside  to  poke  about  for  my 
dead  body  with  drags  and  a  boat-hook.  How  I  wish  we 
could  avoid  them !  How  small  and  thin,  and  drowned  I 
feel!" 

"  Lenore,  is  that  you  ?  where  have  you  been  ?  how  wet 
you  are !  what  has  happened  ?  "  cries  Jemina,  incoherent!}', 
scorning  punctuation,  and  precipitating  herself  upon  her 
sister. 

"  Jemima,  my  sin  has  found  me  out,"  replies  Lenore, 
solemnly.  "  I  made  Mr.  Le  Mesurier  take  me  out  on  the 
water ;  and,  in  order  to  pay  off  all  old  scores,  he  upset  me." 

"And  himself  into  the  bargain,"  says  Le  Mesurier, 
laughing. 

"  Jemima,  your  Connemara  cloak  is  just  about  arriving 
at  St.-Malo ;  so  is  my  hat,  so  is  Mr.  Le  Mesurier's." 

"  And  you  are  not  hurt,  only  drenched  ?  "  cried  West, 
tremulously ;  and,  forgetting  his  shyness,  lays  an  audacious 
hand  upon  Qne  of  the  shoulders  that  are  glimmering,  so 
wet  and  shining,  through  her  transparent  gown. 

"  Not  hurt,  only  drenched,"  she  echoes,  laughing  cheer- 
ily, and  eluding  him,  while  her  face  smiles  out,  pale  and 
pretty  and  altered,  from  the  thick  frame  of  heavy  damp 
hair  that  cleaves  so  closely  and  lovingly  to  cheeks  and 
throat.  "  See,  Jemima  ! "  exhibiting  a  small,  muddy  foot, 
"  my  right  shoe  has  gone  the  way  of  all  shoes." 

"  A  very  blessed  upset ! "  says  Paul  to  himself,  half  an 
hour  later,  oracularly  shaking  his  head,  as  he  scrambles 
into  dry  clothes  at  the  Hotel  de  la  Poste.  "  She  was  do- 
ing her  best  to  make  a  fool  of  me,  and  she  had  all  but  suc- 
ceeded. 

4 


74  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

CHAPTER  X. 

WHAT    THE     AUTHOR     SAYS. 

A  WEEK  has  gone  by.  Lenore's  teeth  no  longer  chat- 
ter. She  is  quite  dry  again,  and  has  bought  a  new  hat 
seven  times  more  coquettish  than  the  drowned  one.  She 
keeps,  however,  a  tender  memento  of  her  adventure  with 
Paul  in  the  shape  of  a  sore  throat  and  trifling  cough,  which 
not  even  the  unwonted  dose  of  cognac  has  kept  off. 
Breakfast  at  the  Hotel  de  la  Poste  is  over.  The  twenty 
or  thirty  commercial  travellers  and  clerks,  who,  according 
to  the  wont  of  French  hotels,  share  that  feast  with  the 
visitors  and  tourists,  have  disappeared  again  into  private 
life.  Paul  is  sitting  in  the  little  dark  salon,  writing  a  let- 
ter to  his  sister,  with  a  sputtering  pen.  Paul's  caligraphy 
is  rather  like  that  of  John  Ball  of  the  Chancery  bar,  who 
wrote  three  several  hands :  one  that  no  one  but  himself 
could  read,  one  that  his  clerk  could  read  and  he  could  not, 
and  one  that  nobody  could  read.  Paul  is  just  staring  hard 
at  his  production,  and  wondering  what  on  earth  was  the 
mystic  remark  that  he  had  made  at  the  top  of  the  second 
page — searching  his  mind  for  the  history  of  the  past  week, 
in  order  to  be  able  to  give  a  guess  as  to  what  it  was  likely 
to  have  been,  when  the  door  opens,  and  admits  Mr.  West. 

"  Le  Mesurier  ! " 

"  Well  "  (not  looking  up). 

West  enters,  and  walks  over  to  the  window. 

"  Well,"  says  Paul  again,  abandoning  the  idea  of  read- 
ing over  his  letter,  and  beginning  to  fold  it. 

West  advances  to  the  table,  and  lays  a  small,  tremulous 
hand  on  his  friend's  broad  shoulder. 

"  Le  Mesurier,  I — I — have  a  favor, to  ask  of  you." 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  V5 

"  My  dear  fellow,  do  not  say  that  it  is  to  lend  you  five 
pounds,"  cries  Le  Mesurier,  in  affected  alarm.  "  I  have 
had  severe  losses  myself  lately ;  I  have  a  heavy  engage- 
ment to  meet  to-morrow — " 

"  Oh,  pooh  !  it  is  not  that,  of  course ;  but — but — I  have 
something  to  say  to  you." 

"Say  on." 

"  Not  here  "  (glancing  round  uneasily)  ;  "  we  might  be 
overheard." 

"  By  whom  ?  The  noble  army  of  shop-boys  dispersed 
itself  half  an  hour  ago,  and  the  landlord  informed  me 
yesterday  that  the  only  English  word  he  knew  was,  *  Snap, 
snap,  snorum,  a  cockolorum  ! '  " 

"  Would  you  mind  coming  outside  for  a  moment  ?  " 
says  Frederick,  pertinaciously. 

"  All  right.     Give  us  a  light." 

He  leisurely  folds  and  directs  his  letter,  and  then  takes 
out  and  lights  a  cigar,  while  West  stands  beside  him,  shift- 
ing feverishly  from  leg  to  leg,  and  rolling  up  his  dumpling 
hat  into  a  hundred  weird  shapes.  They  emerge  from  the 
hotel  door;  the  voiture  is  just  starting  for  Caulnes,  drawn 
by  a  pony  and  a  huge  white  horse,  both  in  the  worst  possi- 
ble spirits.  A  man,  all  clad  in  white  flannel,  is  stepping 
into  the  interior ;  a  fat  priest,  with  his  limp  cassock  cling- 
ing about  his  legs,  climbing  up  into  the  dusty  banquette  ; 
the  blue-bloused  driver  mending  a  rift  in  the  rotten  rope- 
harness  ;  and,  over  all,  the  broad  sun  laughing  down,  and 
the  lime-flowers  from  the  Place  du  Guesclin  shaking  out 
their  lovely  scent  on  the  morning  air.  The  two  men  cross 
the  street,  enter  the  place,  and  sit  down  on  a  bench — the 
very  one  on  which  Paul  and  Lenore  sat  in  the  dark  a  week 
ago. 

"  Well,"  says  Le  Mesurier,  expectantly,  after  they  have 
sat  three  minutes  without  speaking. 


76  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  I  am  going  home — tc  England,"  says  Frederick,  ab- 
ruptly. 

"  Have  you  brought  me  out  here  to  tell  me  that  ?  "  asks 
Paul,  banteringly. 

Silence ! 

"  So  you  are  going  now,  are  you,  eh  ?  "  pursues  Paul, 
carelessly.  "  So  will  I,  I  think.  Let  us  toss  who  shall  pay 
— heads  or  tails,"  throwing  up  a  napoleon  into  the  air  and 
catching  it. 

But  Frederick's  thoughts  are  far  enough  away  from 
heads  or  tails.  The  diligence  is  just  moving  off. 

"  Allez !  allez  !  "  cries  the  driver,  flicking  with  his  long 
whip  the  old  white  horse's  sharp  back.  The  bells  give  a 
cracked  jingle  ;  off  they  go  ! 

"  I  am  naturally  particularly  loath  to  leave  this  place 
just  now,"  says  West,  his  spectacles  mournfully  fixed  on 
the  lessening  vehicle. 

"  Are  you  ?  "  says  Le  Mesurier,  staring  at  him  obtusely. 
"  Why  ?  and  why  naturally  ?  " 

Frederick  pulls  a  supple  lime-leaf  that  is  fluttering  just 
above  his  nose,  and  tears  it  into  thin  green  strips. 

"  I  thought,"  he  says,  blushing  and  stammering,  "  that 
you  must  have  seen  that  there  was — was  something  between 
me  and — and — and  Miss  Lenore." 

Paul  shakes  his  head. 

"  Indeed  I  cannot  say  that  I  ever  noticed  any  thing  of 
the  kind,"  he  answers,  bluntly,  feeling  rather  angry,  he 
cannot  imagine  why. 

"  Did  not  you  ?  "  (pushing  his  spectacles  down  on  the 
bridge  of  his  nose,  and  gazing  over  them  with  meek  sur- 
prise at  his  friend).  "  I  fancied  that  my  attachment — my — 
my  devotion — must  have  been  patent  to  the  most  super- 
ficial observer." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  of  course  they  were,"  says  Paul,  laugh- 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  7T 

ing,  not  ill-naturedly.  "  But  you  said  something  between 
you  and  Miss  Lenore.  Now,  the  word  beticeen  implies  that 
there  are  tico  to  the  bargain." 

"  And  you  think  that  there  is  only  one  to  this  bargain  ?  " 
says  Frederick,  despondently,  looking  down,  while  the 
blush  fades  out  of  his  face,  and  the  gay  motes  run  up  and 
down  about  his  hair. 

"Good  Lord!  West"  (a  little  impatiently),  "how  can 
I  tell  ?  Does  the  girl  confide  in  me,  do  you  suppose  ?  " 

"  No  doubt  you  think,"  says  Frederick,  turning  toward 
his  companion  again,  while  his  sensitive  mouth  twitches 
painfully,  "  that  I  am  not  the  sort  of  man  to  take  a  hand- 
some, spirited  girl's  fancy  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?  "  repeats  Le  Mesurier,  embarrassed 
by  the  exactitude  with  which  his  friend  has  hit  his  thought. 

"  '  Different  men  are  of  different  opinions ; 
Some  like  apples,  some  like  inions — ' 

and  I  dare  say  women  are  the  same." 

How  drowsily  the  bees  are  humming  high  up  among  the 
faint,  thick  blooms !  It  is  enough  to  send  one  to  sleep. 

"  After  all,"  says  Frederick,  brightening  a  little  under 
the  influence  of  his  companion's  homely  saw,  "I  am  not 
altogether  sure  that  the  mere  fact  of  her  treating  me  cava- 
lierly— chaffing  me,  calling  me  names,  and  so  forth,  tells  en- 
tirely against  me.  It  is  the  way  of  some  girls,  I  believe. 
Even  if  Lenore  did  like  a  fellow,  she  would  die  sooner  than 
show  it." 

"  Would  she  ? "  says  Le  Mesurier,  with  a  half-absent 
smile,  throwing  his  head  back,  and  staring  up  into  the  flick- 
ering, tremulous  leafage  above  him,  while  his  thoughts 
travel  back  over  the  past  week,  to  the  silver  wash  of  a  mid- 
night stream — to  a  lady,  with  pearly  lights  playing  about 
her>  holding  out  a  water-lily  to  him,  and  saying,  with  a 


V8  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

^  _^  • 

slow,  soft  smile,  "  Take  it,  then."  He  is  woke  out  of  his 
trance  by  two  Breton  housewives,  chattering  past  in  those 
shrill,  screechy  voices  that  God  has  given  to  Frenchwomen 
alone,  as  they  step  out  stoutly  in  their  short,  heavy,  and 
trim  black-stuff  stockings. 

"  Now  I  have  told  you  the  state  of  things  with  me," 
says  Frederick,  with  a  nervous  laugh,  "  perhaps  you  can 
guess  what  is  the  favor  I  am  going  to  ask  of  you." 

"  I  ?  "  says  Le  Mesurier,  giving  a  great  start,  and  look- 
ing thoroughly  puzzled. 

"  Guess." 

"  Not  I.  Perhaps  "  (with  a  brilliant  flash  of  intuition) 
"  it  is  to  ask  me  to  be  best  man :  only  that  is  no  great  fa- 
vor, and  it  is  rather  premature — is  not  it  ?  " 

Frederick  jumps  up  suddenly. 

"  If  you  are  going  to  make  a  jest — "  he  says,  with  a 
hurt  intonation. 

"  My  good  fellow,"  cries  Paul,  energetically,  laying  his 
hand  upon  his  shoulder,  "  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor 
that  I  know  no  more  than  the  dead  what  you  are  driving 
at.  I  never  was  good  at  guessing.  I  never  found  out  a 
riddle  in  all  my  life.  I  give  it  up." 

West  looks  at  him  distrustfully  ;  but,  seeing  no  mirth, 
only  boundless  bewilderment,  in  his  friend's  ugly  face,  he 
continues,  speaking  with  difficulty,  looking  down,  and  kick- 
ing-about  some  stray  cherry-stones  that  a  former  occupant 
of  the  bench  has  left  strewed  on  the  ground : 

"  I  do  not  know  why  it  is,  I  am  sure — cannot  make  out 
— but  you  have  certainly  more  influence  with  Miss  Lenore 
than  any  one  else." 

"  Have  I  ?  "  says  Paul,  shortly,  turning  away  his  head. 

"  She  will  do  for  you  what  she  will  not  do  for  either  her 
sister  or  me." 

"  Will  she  ?  "  still  more  shortly,  while  a  slight  flattered 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  79 

flush  rises  to  his  forehead.  "  I  really  have  not  discovered 
it," 

"  And,  such  being  the  case,"  continues  "West,  with  in- 
creasing hesitation,  stammering,  floundering,  and  redden- 
ing ever  more  and  more,  "  I  thought  that  perhaps  you 
might—" 

"  I  might  what  f  "  asks  Paul,  still  staring  stupidly  at 
his  friend. 

"  I  thought,"  says  West,  plunging  desperately  in  me- 
dias  res,  seeing  that  he  is  not  likely  to  get  much  help  from 
his  companion's  intelligence,  "  that  you  might  perhaps — 
say  something  about  me  to  her — sound  her  feelings  with 
regard  to  me,  to  a  certain  extent." 

"  I !  !  !  "  says  Paul,  turning  sharp  round,  the  mystified 
expression  of  his  face  giving  place  to  one  of  enormous 
astonishment.  "I!  my  dear  West?  Are  you  quite 
cracked  ?  " 

"  She  would,  at  all  events,  give  you  a  hearing,"  says 
Frederick,  downcast,  but  pertinacious. 

"  Would  she  ? "  cries  the  other,  laughing  violently. 
"  I  very  much  doubt  it.  She  would  be  more  likely  to  bang 
the  door  in  my  face,  and  tear  out  my  few  remaining  hairs, 
and  quite  right,  too." 

"Perhaps  it  is  because  you  saved  her  life,"  pursues 
West,  ruefully,  keeping  on  his  own  track. 

"  Saved  her  life !  "  breaks  in  Paul,  now  really  angry. 
"  My  good  fellow,  for  God's  sake,  do  not  talk  like  a  fool, 
whatever  you  do !  To  upset  a  woman  into  a  ditch,  and 
then  pull  her  out,  can  hardly  be  termed  '  saving  her  life,' 
even  in  these  days,  when  every  little  thing  is  called  by 
some  big  name." 

Silence.  The  little  yellow  lights  glancing  and  flashing 
up  and  down  about  their  hats  and  coats. 

"West,"   says   Paul,   abruptly,   rising  from  his   seatj 


80  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

thrusting  his  hands  down  to  the  very  bottom  of  his  pock- 
ets, in  his  favorite  attitude,  and  looking  full  and  keenly 
into  his  companion's  downcast  face,  "  suppose  you  got  Miss 
Lenore,  what  on  earth  would  you  do  with  her  ?  " 

"Do  with  her?"  repeats  West,  staring.  "What  do 
you  mean  ?  " 

"  Can  you  fancy  that  girl  a  parson's  wife  ?  "  says  Le 
Mesurier,  beginning  to  laugh,  while  with  inner  vision  he 
sees  again  that  dare-devil  smile,  those  lovely  half-lowered 
eyes,  that  had  kindled  such  unwilling  fire  in  his  own  cold 
veins.  "Do  not  be  angry  with  me,  West;  I  could  not 
stop  laughing  now  if  you  were  to  kill  me.  I  think  I  see 
her  holding  forth  at  a  mothers'  meeting,  or  teaching  at  a 
Sunday-school !  Poor  little  wretches  !  would  not  she  cuff 
them  ! " 

"  She  is  so  young,"  says  Frederick,  deprecatingly.  "  I 
should  hope  that  one  might  be  able  to  mould  her — " 

"  Mould  her  ?  "  echoes  Paul,  derisively.  "  My  dear 
boy,  it  would  take  you  all  your  time.  She  would  comb 
your  hair  with  a  three-legged  stool." 

A  pause. 

"  I  am  to  understand,  then,"  says  Frederick,  trying  to 
speak  stiffly,  but  with  a  suspicion  of  tears  in  his  voice, 
"  that  you  decline  to  help  me  ?  " 

"  Decline  to  propose  to  Miss  Lenore  for  you  ?  I  do, 
distinctly,"  replies  Paul,  stoutly. 

"  Perhaps,"  says  Frederick,  with  the  easy,  baseless  jeal- 
ousy of  unlucky  love,  "  you  would  have  no  such  objection 
to  speak  to  her  on  your  own  account  ?  " 

A  dark,  unbecoming  flush  rushes  over  Le  Mesurier's 
face. 

"  I  ?  "  he  says,  angrily.  "  What  are  you  talking  about, 
West  ?  Must  everybody  be  in  love  with  her  because  you 
are  ?  Did  not  I  tell  you,  the  very  first  day  I  saw  her — the 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SATS.  81 

day  that  she  took  it  into  her  head  to  play  that  unaccount- 
able prank — very  bad  form  it  was,  too — that  she  was  not 
my  style  ?  No  more  she  is.  I  must  say  that  she  improves 
upon  acquaintance  ;  but  no,  no — not  my  line  at  all." 

Frederick  sits  down  upon  the  bench  again,  in  a  stooped, 
shapeless  attitude  of  utter  despondency. 

"  Why  cannot  you  ask  her  yourself  ?  "  inquires  Le  Me- 
surier,  with  a  mixed  feeling  of  compassion  for  the  sufferer's 
misery  and  raging  contempt  for  his  poverty  of  spirit.  "  If 
a  thing  is  worth  having,  it  is  surely  worth  asking  for." 

"  It  would  be  no  use,"  replies  West,  dejectedly ;  "  she 
would  not  listen  to  me — she  never  does  ;  she  would  only 
laugh,  and  turn  every  thing  I  said  into  ridicule." 

"  Why  on  earth  do  not  you  go  in  for  the  old  one  in- 
stead ? "  asks  Paul,  impatiently.  "  She  would  suit  you 
down  to  the  ground.  She  would  listen  to  you  fast  enough, 
and  she  would  not  need  any  moulding." 

"  I  dare  say  it  would  have  been  happier  for  me  if  I  could 
have  fancied  her,"  replies  West,  with  the  admirable  con- 
ceit of  man,  in  whose  vocabulary  "  ask  "  and  "  have  "  are 
supposed  to  be  interchangeable  terms.  "  She  is  a  dear, 
good  girl,  and  really  fond  of  parish  work.  But  no,  no  " 
(with  a  heavy  sigh),  "  that  is  impossible  now." 

He  covers  his  face  with  both  hands,  and  relapses  into 
silence.  Paul  eyes  him  doubtfully  for  a  few  minutes; 
then,  laying  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  says,  not  un- 
kindly : 

"  Cheer  up,  old  man  !  It  is  a  long  lane  that  has  no 
turning.  I  would  do  any  thing  in  reason  I  could  for  you, 
for  old  acquaintance'  sake ;  but  what  you  ask  is  not  in 
reason — come,  now,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  not  "  (in  a  stifled  voice). 

"  She  would  box  my  ears,  or  order  me  out  of  the  house, 
as  likely  as  not ;  she  is  quite  capable  of  either,"  says  Paul, 


"GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 


trying  to  steel  himself  in  his  resolution  in  proportion  as  he 
finds  it  melting  under  the  fire  of  his  compassion. 

"  No  doubt — I  ought  not  to  have  asked  you,"  West 
says,  lifting  his  face  from  his  hands,  which  fall  nervelessly 
on  his  knees.  "  I  should  not  have  thought  of  doing  so  if 
I  had  not  known  what  an  opinion  she  had  of  you." 

"  Has  she  ?  "  says  Paul,  coloring  again  slightly,  while 
a  warm  glow  of  self-satisfaction  steals  pleasantly  over  him. 
"  But  now,  my  dear  fellow,  do  think  what  a  fool  I  should 
look.  How  should  I  begin  ?  How  should  I  go  on  ?  How 
should  I  finish  ?  " 

"  I  would  leave  all  that  to  you,  of  course." 

"  No,  no,"  says  Le  Mesurier,  rising  hastily  ;  "  upon  my 
soul,  I  cannot  /  it  is  impossible.  I  have  no  opinion  of  go- 
betweens.  Ask  for  yourself,  and  take  your  answer,  what- 
ever it  is,  like  a  man." 


CHAPTER   XL 

WHAT     THE     AUTHOR     SATS. 

BRAG  is  a  good  dog,  but  Holdfast  is  a  better.  Mr.  Le 
Mesurier,  however,  shows  himself  incapable  of  being  the 
latter  •  incapable  of  keeping  to  the  wise  and  rational  reso- 
lution expressed  at  the  close  of  the  last  chapter.  On  the 
morning  of  the  day  following  that  on  which  Frederick  pre- 
ferred his  request,  Paul  might  have  been  seen,  walking 
slowly  and  with  a  hang-dog  air,  in  the  direction  of  the 
Pension  Leroux.  He  is  smoking  like  a  chimney ;  his  eyes 
are  fixed  on  the  ground,  and  his  hands  are  buried  deeper 
than  ever  in  the  pockets  of  his  old  gray  shooting-jacket. 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  83 

"  I  would  give  any  one  twenty  pounds  to  stand  in  my 
shoes  for  the  next  half  hour,"  he  says  to  himself,  as  he 
drags  his  feet  one  after  another  through  the  calf-market, 
between  the  miserable  calves,  flung  down  roughly,  with 
legs  tied  together  and  heads  moving  wistfully  from  side  to 
side,  to  lie  for  hours  together,  baking,  helpless,  and  un- 
pitied,  in  the  mid-day  sun.  Paul  need  not  have  gone  near 
the  calf-market  at  all ;  it  is  quite  out  of  his  way ;  but  then 
it  takes  a  little  longer.  He  stands  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  staring  in  at  the  clever  little  terra-cotta  models  of  men 
and  beasts,  in  M.  Noel  le  Quillec's  small  shop-window,  close 
to  the  Porte  St.-Louis ;  but,  however  ingenious  two  clay- 
pigs,  set  up  on  their  hind-legs  and  walking  arm-in-arm,  or 
a  donkey  playing  the  concertina,  may  be,  it  is  impossible 
to  stare  at  them  forever. 

"  Please  God  she  is  out ! "  he  says,  piously,  turning  with 
a  sigh  through  the  shady  porte. 

But  she  is  not  out.  As  he  comes  in  sight  of  the  salon- 
window  he  sees  two  arms  resting  on  the  silica  woman  in 
a  bright-blue  gown,  and  with  bright-brown  hair,  leaning 
out.  It  is  not  Jemima,  Jemima  is  not  addicted  to  gay  col- 
ors, save  in  the  matter  of  that  Connemara  cloak  that  Provi- 
dence has  sent  sailing  down  the  Ranee  to  St.-Malo.  The 
cherry-market  is  held  in  the  Place  St.-Louis.  Groups  of 
snowy-headed  women,  with  great-eared  caps,  are  trudging 
about  the  little  square,  with  huge  baskets  of  piled-up  cher- 
ries, shaded  by  great  cotton  umbrellas ;  little  luscious  black 
cherries,  juicy  red  ones,  pale,  fleshy  white-hearts.  Lenore 
is  in  treaty  for  some  of  the  latter. 

"  Tenez ! "  she  cries,  sending  her  clear  English  voice, 
fresh  as  the  voice  of  a  water-fall  or  of  a  blackbird  on  a 
green  April  evening,  down  through  the  singsong  French 
screams  below,  and  pointing  with  her  fore-finger  to  a  tempt- 
ing heap.  "  Combien  ?  " 


84  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  Quat'  sous  la  livre,"  replies  a  weather-beaten  little 
housewife,  briskly. 

The  girl's  eyes  wander  round  the  baskets  to  see  wheth- 
er any  other  saleswoman  has  bigger  cherries  than  those 
under  her  notice,  and,  so  wandering,  they  fall  on  Paul's  up- 
turned face.  Instantly  she  forgets  that  such  fruit  as  cher- 
ries exists. 

"  Anybody  at  home  ?  "  asks  Paul,  shading  his  face  with 
his  hand,  and  smiling  up. 

"  It  depends  upon  who  *  anybody '  is,"  she  answers, 
gravely.  "  If  anybody  means  Madame  Lange,  she  is  out ; 
if  anybody  means  Jemima,  she  is  out ;  if  anybody  means 
me,  I  am  not  out." 

"  I  may  come  up,  then  ?  " 

"  If  you  are  sure  that  you  can  find  your  way,"  retorts 
she,  laughing. 

He  turns,  and  enters  the  house.  Old  Mdlle.  Leroux 
puts  her  head  out  from  the  door  of  the  dining-room,  where 
she  is  sitting,  mending  table-linen,  waggles  her  gray  curls 
and  yellow  ribbons,  and  cries,  "  J3o?ijour,  monsieur ! " 
cheerily. 

"  Oh,  for  a  brandy-and-soda  ! "  sighs  Paul  to  himself,  as 
he  reaches  the  landing. 

Screwing  up  his  fast-oozing  courage,  he  marches  in. 
Lenore  has  turned  away  from  the  window  to  greet  him ; 
she  looks  as  if  she  were  a  piece  of  the  summer  sky,  all  blue 
and  smiling. 

"  You  must  not  stay  long,"  she  says,  stretching  out  a 
ready  hand  to  him ;  "  it  is  Wednesday,  and  on  Wednesday 
we  are  obliged  to  evacuate  this  salon,  because  it  is  Madame 
Lange's  day  for  receiving.  Fancy  receiving  here  !  "  (look- 
ing round  contemptuously). 

"  Well,  are  not  you  receiving  here  yourself  now  ? " 
says  Paul,  trying  to  speak  with  airy  nonchalance,  and  feel- 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  85 

ing  as  if  he  were  looking  extremely  sheepish.  "  Are  not 
you  receiving  me  f  " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  but,  then,  you  are  nobody,"  she  says,  with  a 
gay  little  laugh. 

"  Thanks." 

"  I  mean,  you  are  only  one — not  a  party "  (laughing 
again,  and  standing  before  him,  straight,  and  fresh,  and 
beautiful). 

"  She  is  meat  for  his  masters,"  is  Le  Mesurier's  invol- 
untary thought,  and,  so  thinking,  looks  at  her  (unknowing 
it)  with  grave,  critical  intentness.  Under  that  look,  her 
great  frank  eyes  pale  suddenly,  and  her  color  comes  and 
goes — comes  and  goes — in  tremulous  carnation. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come  !  "  she  says,  beginning 
to  talk  very  fast.  "  Mina  is  gone  out  sketching  with  Mdlle. 
Pe"roline,  and  I  have  been  so  hard  up  for  something  to  do 
that  I  have  been  reduced  to  trying  to  educate  Monsieur 
Charles.  Look  at  him !  He  is  rather  wobbly,  perhaps,  but 
not  so  bad  for  a  beginner — is  he  ?  " 

So  speaking  she  points  to  where,  on  a  small  stool,  Mdlle. 
Leroux's  unhappy  poodle  sits  dismally  upright,  on  totter- 
ing, shorn  hind-quarters,  with  his  arm  in  a  sling — that  is 
to  say,  with  one  poor  little  paw  unmercifully  tied,  with  a 
bit  of  blue  ribbon,  round  his  neck. 

"  Faites  mendiant,  Monsieur  Charles ! "  cries  the 
young  girl,  flinging  herself  on  her  knees  on  the  floor  before 
him.  "  Up  !  up !  Unfortunately,  he  does  not  understand 
English ! " 

"Does  not  he?" 

"  He  has  been  going  through  a  regular  course  of  exer- 
cises," says  Lenore,  gravely.  "  Just  before  you  came  in,  I 
put  one  of  M.  Cesar's  hats  on  his  head,  and  a  pair  of  old 
Mdlle.  Leroux's  spectacles  011  his  nose,  and  you  can  have 
no  conception  how  like  Frederick  he  looked." 


86  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

As  she  kneels  there,  with  all  her  blue  draperies  spread 
about  the  floor,  and  the  dimples  appearing  and  disappear- 
ing in  her  cheeks,  a  spasm  of  unwilling  admiration  con- 
tracts his  heart. 

"  Frederick  is  going,"  he  says,  brusquely,  turning  his 
head  away,  and  looking  out  of  window — "  going  home,  to 
England,  to-morrow." 

"  Is  he  ?  "  says  the  girl,  carelessly.  "  Why  does  not  he 
come  and  say  good-bye  to  us,  then  ?  or  are  his  feelings  too 
many  for  him  ?  " 

"  He  is  talking  of  coming  this  afternoon." 

"  I  hope  he  will  not  cry,  or  have  a  great  access  of  emo- 
tion; he  generally  has  at  this  sort  of  crisis.  It  always 
makes  me  laugh — don't  you  know  ? — and  that  looks  so 
unfeeling  ?  "  she  says,  glancing  appealingly  up  at  him. 

"  You  are  unfeeling !  "  he  blurts  out,  unjustifiably,  with 
a  mistaken  feeling  of  loyalty  toward  his  friend. 

She  looks  at  him  quickly,  to  see  whether  he  is  joking, 
but,  perceiving  that  he  is  serious,  says,  quietly  and  without 
anger: 

"  Am  I  ?    What  makes  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  I  gather  it  from  your  own  wrords." 

"About  Frederick?"  she  asks,  composedly.  "Poor 
dear  little  gentleman !  We  shall  miss  him  very  much — 
getting  tickets  and  claiming  luggage;  but  you  would 
hardly  expect  me  to  go  into  hysterics  over  him — would 
you?" 

He  is  silent,  meditating  on  the  utter  bootlessness  of  his 
errand. 

"  Would  you  ?  "  she  repeats,  pertinaciously. 

She  has  sunk  down  in  a  sitting  attitude  on  the  floor ; 
her  idle  hands  lie,  white  as  milk,  in  her  lap.  Monsieur 
Charles  has  availed  himself  of  the  diversion  effected  in  his 
favor  to  abandon  his  upright  posture,  hobble  off  on  three 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SATS.  87 

legs  to  a  corner  under  the  piano,  where  he  spends  himself 
in  vain  efforts  to  bite  off  his  blue  ribbon. 

"  It  would  be  much  better  for  you  if  you  had  some  one 
to  go  into  hysterics  about,"  says  Paul,  drawing  a  small 
cane  chair  near  Lenore,  and  resolving  to  attack  the  fortress 
indirectly. 

She  blushes  vividly.  Some  girls  blush  at  a  nothing  / 
other  girls  blush  at  nothing. 

"Would  it?"  she  says. 

"  You  will  not  be  angry  with  me  for  speaking  plainly 
to  you  ?  We  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  each  other,  consid- 
ering how  short  a  time  it  is  since  we  first  met — have  not 
we  ?  "  says  he,  with  a  benevolent  sense  of  fatherly  enjoy- 
ment in  lecturing  this  fair  delinquent,  this  embodied  storm, 
whom  only  he  can  calm ;  "  but  you  are  one  of  those  women 
who  would  be  much  better  and  happier  married  than  sin- 
gle." 

"  Am  I  ?  "  (in  a  very  low  voice). 

"  You  ought  to  marry  either  a  tyrant  or  a  slave,"  con- 
tinues he,  surprised  at  his  own  eloquence ;  "  either  a  fellow 
who  would  knock  under  completely  to  you,  or  a  fellow  who 
would  make  you  knock  under  completely." 

"  And  which  would  you  recommend,  may  I  ask  ?  "  she 
says,  lifting  her  eyes  archly,  yet  with  difficulty,  to  his  face. 

"  In  your  case,  I  think,  the  slave." 

She  looks  slightly  disappointed,  but  makes  no  rejoinder. 

"  I  do  you  the  justice  to  think,"  pursues  Paul,  warmed 
by  the  fire  of  his  own  rhetoric,  "  that  a  man's  looks  would 
not  influence  you  much — that  he  would  not  be  damned  in 
your  eyes,  even  if  he  had  the  misfortune  not  to  be  good- 
looking." 

She  looks  at  him  again,  bravely  and  firmly  this  time. 

"  You  are  right ;  I  hate  your  beauty-men ;  they  tres- 
pass on  our  preserves  "  (laughing). 


88  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  If  a  fellow  had  been  fond  of  you,  ever  since  he  had 
known  you,  then,"  continues  Paul,  drawing  his  chair  three 
inches  nearer,  and  half  wishing  that  he  were  not  a  proxy, 
"  if  he  had  never  cared  two  straws  for  any  other  woman — 
if  he  were  a  real  good  fellow  at  bottom,  even  though  he 
might  not  have  much  to  recommend  him  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world,  you  would  not  send  him  away  quite  without  hope, 
even  though  you  do  turn  him  into  ridicule  now  and  then." 

"  Into  ridicule  ?  "  she  says,  stammering.  "  What  do 
you  mean  ?  " 

"  Well,  we  will  not  say  any  thing  about  that — but,  you 
would  not  send  him  away  quite  without  hope,  would  you  ?  " 

Her  lips  tremble  and  form  some  word,  but  it  is  inaudi- 
ble. ' 

"  You  will  at  least  listen  to  him  when  he  comes  this 
afternoon  ? "  says  Le  Mesurier,  with  a  sigh  at  his  own 
magnanimity. 

"  Listen  to  him  ?  To  whom  ?  "  she  asks,  lifting  her 
head  in  bewilderment,  while  the  color  dies  out  of  her 
cheeks. 

"  Whom  ?  Why,  of  whom  have  we  been  talking  all 
along  ?  Frederick,  of  course,"  replies  Paul,  a  little  blankly. 

There  is  a  painful  pause;  the  girl's  face  has  grown 
ghastly,  and  her  eyes  are  dilated  in  a  horrible  surprise. 

"  I  am  to  understand,  then,"  she  says,  in  a  husky, 
choked  voice,  "  that  you  are  his  messenger — that  you  have 
been  good  enough  to  take  the  trouble  of  making  love  to 
me  off  his  hands  ?  " 

They  have  both  risen,  and  are  confronting  one  another. 
It  would  be  hard  to  say  which  of  the  two,  considering  their 
different  complexions,  was  the  paler. 

"  Tell  him,"  she  says,  making  a  strong  effort  over  her- 
self, and  speaking  each  slow  syllable  with  painful  distinct- 
ness, "  to  do  his  own  errand  next  time." 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  89 

As  she  speaks,  she  points  to  the  door.  Half  of  Paul's 
vision  is  fulfilled.  She  has  not  boxed  his  ears — he  wishes 
to  Heaven  that  she  would — but  she  has  turned  him  out  of 
the  house.  He  is  down-stairs  and  in  the  little  hall  before 
he  perceives  that  he  has  left  his  hat  behind  him.  He  runs 
up-stairs,  three  steps  at  a  time,  in  his  hurry  to  fetch  it  and 
be  out  of  the  house.  He  enters  the  salon  hurriedly,  and  is 
half-way  toward  the  table,  when  he  stops  short  with  an  ex- 
pression of  shocked  astonishment ;  for,  on  the  little  stiff 
sofa,  Lenore  is  lying,  long  and  limp,  her  face  hidden  in  her 
hands,  her  body,  and  all  her  smart  blue  gown,  shaken  with 
great,  violent  sobs. 

"  Good  God  ?  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  he  cries,  hastily  ; 
"  what  has  happened  ?  are  you  ill  ?  " 

Hearing  his  voice,  she  starts,  and  buries  her  face 
deeper  than  ever  in  the  little  hard  bolster,  as  if  trying  to 
hide  it  forever  from  the  light. 

"  Lenore !  Lenore ! "  cries  the  young  man,  in  high  ex- 
citement, flinging  himself  on  his  knees  beside  her,  entirely 
forgetting  his  proxy  character,  and  speaking  now  alto- 
gether on  his  own  account.  "  What  have  I  done  ?  Tell 
me !  Have  I  said  any  thing  to  vex  you  ?  If  I  thought  I 
had,  I  would  cut  out  my  own  tongue." 

She  does  not  stir ;  but  through  her  fingers  he  sees  the 
hot  tears  trickling,  and,  stooping  over  her,  hears  her  mur- 
mur, almost  unintelligibly,  in  a  voice  of  choked  rage  and 
shame : 

"  Leave  me  alone !  Why  have  you  come  back  ?  Go 
away ! " 

"  I  will  never  go,  until  you  tell  me  what  I  have  done  ! " 
cries  Paul,  quite  forgetting  himself,  and,  so  saying,  with 
his  two  hands,  by  main  force  draws  hers  away  from  her 
face.  "  Tell  me— Lenore !  Tell  me— darling  !  " 

Her  lovely  eyes  are  drowned  in  tears ;  her  cheeks  are 


90  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

crimsoned  with  shameful  weeping — weeping  for  him — as, 
with  a  throb  of  irrepressible,  passionate  exultation,  he  feels. 
Whether  divining  the  exultation  or  not,  she  wrenches  her- 
self away  from  him. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  she  cries,  flashing  at  him 
through  her  tears.  "  I  told  you  to  go !  I  hate  you  1 
Got" 

So  he  goes. 

Evening  again,  and  bedtime.  The  market-women  have 
sold  all  their  wares,  and  gone  home  again.  The  old  priesj; 
in  the  white  house  has  just  opened  his  door,  and  let  out 
two  dogs,  in  a  whirlwind  of  excitement ;  but  for  them,  the 
place  is  empty  and  silent.  The  two  Misses  Herrick  are  in 
the  elder  one's  bedroom.  Lenore  is  sitting  on  the  edge  of 
the  low  bed  ;  her  cheeks  are  as  white  as  privet-flowers,  and 
there  are  red  rims  round  her  eyes.  Jemima  is  devoured 
with  curiosity  as  to  the  cause  of  these  phenomena ;  but  she 
does  riot  ask. 

"  Jemima,"  says  her  sister,  brusquely,  "  let  us  leave  this 
place  !  Let  us  move  on  somewhere  else  !  " 

"  Leave  Dinan  !  leave  Mr.  Le  Mesurier !  "  cries  Jemi- 
ma, archly,  raising  her  eyebrows,  as  she  stands  before  the 
glass,  screwing  up  her  pale,  thin  hair  into  a  little  lump  at 
the  top  of  her  head,  and  drawing  a  white  crochet-net  over 
it,  in  preparation  for  her  virgin  slumbers. 

"  I  am  sick  of  Dinan  and  Mr.  Le  Mesurier,"  rejoins  Le- 
nore, petulantly. 

"  Sick  of  Dinan !  sick  of  Mr.  Le  Mesurier ! "  exclaims 
the  other,  now  thoroughly  astonished,  turning  round  with 
her  mouth  open.  "  Since  when  ?  " 

"  Since  five-and-twenty  minutes  past  eleven  this  morn- 
ing, if  you  wish  to  be  exact,"  replies  Lenore,  with  candid 
bitterness.  "  There,  do  not  tease,  but  let  us  go ! " 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SATS.  91 

"  Go  where  ?  " 

"'Anywhere,  anywhere  out  of  the  world!'"  answers 
the  young  girl,  falling  back  wearily  on  the  bed,  and  di- 
shevelling the  cool  trim  pillow  on  which  her  sister's  chaste 
head  is  to  repose.  "  To  Guingamp,  to  see  the  pardon" 

"  And  what  is  a  pardon,  pray  ?  for  I  have  not  the  re- 
motest idea,"  answers  the  elder,  coming  toward  the  bed, 
having  finished  her  night-toilet,  in  the  severe  simplicity  of 
which  she  looks  at  least  twenty  years  older  than  in  her  day 
one. 

"  If  you  had  read  novels  less,  and  your  Murray  more, 
you  would  not  have  needed  to  ask  that  question,"  replies 
Lenore,  rolling  her  head  about.  "  A  pardon  is  a  sort  of 
religious  ftte /  very  dull,  I  do  not  doubt,  but" — with  a 
tired  sigh — "  it  all  comes  in  the  day's  work  ;  let  us  go ! " 


CHAPTER  XII. 

WHAT     JEMIMA     SAYS. 

WE  are  at  Guingamp.  "We  have  been  here  two  hours. 
Two  hours  ago  we  arrived  hot  and  hungry;  hustled  by 
thronging  groups  of  peasants,  that  are  pressing  into  the 
little  town  to  receive  the  annual  pardon  of  their  sins, 
and  open  a  fresh  account  with  God.  The  Hotel  de 
France  brims  over  with  guests;  insomuch  that  we  have 
been  relegated  to  a  stuffy  little  chamber  au  quatritme  into 
which  the  afternoon  sun  beats  full ;  hotter  than  ten  thou- 
sand Christmas  fires.  Just  now  we  asked  for  hot  water,  to 
wash  our  dirty  faces ;  and  a  woman  in  a  huge  starched 
white  collar,  and  clear  cap,  brought  in  some  in  a  tiny  tea- 
pot. This  has  put  the  culminating  point  to  our  despair. 


92  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

It  is  one  of  those  days  when  one's  very  soul  is  hot,  and 
longs  to  throw  off  the  heavy  cloak  of  the  body;  a  day 
when  one  would  fain  take  off  one's  flesh,  and  sit  in  one's 
bones,  according  to  Sydney  Smith's  time-honored  waggery. 
It  is  not  windless ;  on  the  contrary,  there  is  a  very  percep- 
tible air ;  but  it  is  such  air  as  meets  you  at  the  mouth  of 
a  furnace.  Lenore  has  abandoned  the  struggle  with  cir- 
cumstances. She  has  acknowledged  herself  beaten,  and 
lies  all  along,  in  extremest  dishabille,  on  the  narrow  bit  of 
parquet  between  the  two  beds,  where  the  hard  oak  commu- 
nicates a  little  coolness  to  the  back.  Her  head  rests  on  a 
pillow  that  she  has  pulled  down  ;  a  white  dressing-gown  is 
loosely  wrapped  about  her,  and  her  small  bare  feet  wander 
about  impatiently  in  the  vain  search  for  a  cool  spot  on  the 
hot  boards.  Now  and  again,  odd,  sluggish,  beetleish  ani- 
mals, with  slate-colored  bodies,  crawl  over  her  outflung 
arms.  She  has  just  energy  enough  to  shake  them  off,  and 
call  piteously  to  me  to  come  and  kill  them  with  my  shoe- 
heel.  Our  two  windows  and  our  door  are  open ;  we  are 
trying  to  believe  that  we  are  in  a  draught.  A  regiment  is 
passing  through  Guingamp ;  the  officers  are  billetted  on  our 
hotel.  Every  now  and  then  one  hears  the  clink  of  a  sabre, 
and  the  sound  of  heavy  feet  coming  down  our  corridor. 

"  Heavens,  Jemima !  shut  the  door ! "  cries  my  sister, 
unwilling  to  be  exposed  in  her  present  sketchy  toilet  to  the 
gaze  of  the  French  army.  I  spring  forward  and  close  it ; 
and  as  soon  as  the  large-busted,  small-waisted  hero,  in  his 
hot  red  trousers  and  tight  epauletted  frock-coat,  has  passed, 
fling  it  wide  again.  I  have  been  unpacking,  my  head  buried 
in  my  small  canvas-covered  box ;  it  is  more  than  woman 
born  of  woman  can  bear.  I  rise  and  lean  out  of  the  win- 
dow. Outside  a  lugubrious  horn  is  playing  "  Partant  pour 
la  Syrie,"  very  slowly ;  the  omnibus  is  just  driving  into  the 
court-yard. 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  93 

"  Poor  omnibus !  poor  horses  ! "  cry  I,  compassionately, 
"how  many  times  have  they  been  down  to  the  station 
to-day  ?  What  a  heap  of  luggage  ! " 

"  Jemima,  my  head  is  not  high  enough  3~et ;  give  me 
your  pillow  too  ! "  calls  out  Lenore,  lamentably,  from  the 
floor.  I  comply,  and  then  return  to  the  window,  and  look 
again  at  the  omnibus,  which  is  just  beginning  to  empty  its 
load. 

"  Good  Heavens  ! "  ejaculate  I,  with  animation.  "  Why, 
Lenore,  there  is  Mr.  Le  Mesurier  getting  out !  He  has  a 
puggry  round  his  hat ;  how  odd  he  looks  ! " 

Lenore  is  disposing  two  pillows  and  a  bolster  to  her 
mind ;  she  gives  a  great  start,  but  her  head  is  turned  from 
me. 

"  I  wish  he  would  get  a  new  portmanteau,"  pursue  I, 
soliloquizing,  "  the  P.  Le  M.  on  his  is  getting  nearly  effaced 
with  age." 

The  omnibus  still  disgorges :  an  old  priest  in  a  broad 
felt  hat,  and  limp  sash  round  his  huge  waist,  with  a  yellow 
face  and  black  teeth,  yawning  prodigiously.  A  peasant- 
woman  with  a  queer  baby  in  a  tight  calico  skull-cap ;  then 
another  gentleman  in  a  puggry. 

"  The  plot  thickens,"  cry  I,  with  a  sprightly  air.  "  Le- 
nore, I  think  the  friend  has  turned  up  at  last.  I  began  to 
fancy  that  he  was  a  sort  of  Mrs.  Harris ;  but  seeing  is  be- 
lieving, and  here  he  is  ! " 

Silence. 

"  How  good-looking ! "  say  I,  under  my  breath,  as  the 
second  gentleman  joins  the  first,  and  indicates  his  worldly 
goods  to  the  garc.cn.  I  hear  a  scrambling  noise  behind  me. 
Lenore  is  at  my  side ;  her  face  is  white,  and  she  peeps  ob- 
liquely behind  the  curtain,  as  the  hot  breeze  blows  back  her 
loose  bright  hair. 

"  How  ugly  your  friend  Paul  looks  beside  him ! "  say  I, 
spitefully. 


94  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  When  does  not  lie  look  ugly  ?  "  rejoins  my  junior, 
with  bitterness. 

"  They  are  parleying  with  the  landlady,"  say  I,  leaning 
out.  "  No  doubt  she  is  civiller  to  them  than  she  was  to 
us ;  I  suppose  two  maidless,  courierless,  husbandless  women 
must  resign  themselves  to  being  snubbed  ?  Ah,  poor  dear 
Frederick  !  How  one  does  miss  him  !  " 

"  Under  which  head  did  he  come  ?  "  asks  Lenore,  dryly ; 
"  maid,  courier,  or  husband  ?  " 

The  luggage  is  carried  into  the  house  ;•  the  pageant 
fades.  I  return  to  my  packing,  and  ten  minutes  pass. 

"  Lenore,  dear,  you  had  better  be  beginning  to  dress," 
I  say,  hortatively  ;  "  the  clock  struck  the  quarter  five  min- 
utes ago." 

"  I  am  not  thinking  of  dressing,"  replies  Lenore,  look- 
ing enormously  long,  as  she  lies  stretched  straight  out. 

"  You  are  going  down  to  dinner  as  you  are,  in  fact — 
bare  legs  and  a  dressing-gown  ?  "  say  I,  humorously. 

"  I  am  not  going  down  to  dinner  at  all,"  replies  she, 
clasping  her  hands  underneath  her  head. 

"  Not  going  down  to  dinner  !  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 
exclaim  I,  in  high  astonishment. 

"  Jemima,  do  French  people  ever  open  their  windows  ? 
Do  not  they  hate  fresh  air  ?  Would  it  be  possible  to  eat 
steaming  ragouts  in  a  close  room  with  fifty  commercial 
travellers  to-day  of  all  days  ?  " 

"  Before  the  omnibus  came  from  the  station,  you 
thought  it  quite  possible,"  reply  I,  dryly. 

Silence. 

"  Come,  now,  did  not  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes  "  (looking  rather  sheepish). 

"  It  is  on  account  of  Mr.  Le  Mesurier  that  you  are  going 
to  forego  your  dinner  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes  "  (much  more  sheepishly). 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  95 

"  Lenore  !  Lenore  !  what  has  he  done  ?  "  cry  I,  kneel- 
ing down  beside  her,  in  a  frenzy  of  curiosity;  "tell 
me." 

"  He  has  done  nothing,"  turning  her  face  away,  and 
plucking  at  the  pillow  with  her  fingers. 

"  What  has  he  said  ?  " 

"  He  has  said  nothing." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  that  you  were  not  good  form,  accord- 
ing to  his  pet  expression  ?  "  (laughing). 

"  No." 

"  Did  he  make  love  to  you  ?  "  suggest  I,  growing  wild 
in  my  conjectures. 

"  No,  no." 

"  Did  he  propose  to  you  ?  " 

"Not  NO!  NO!" 

I  can  only  see  her  ear,  which  has  grown  suddenly 
scarlet. 

"  What  did  he  do  ?  "  ask  I,  at  my  wit's  end. 

"  Jemima,"  says  Lenore,  sitting  up  on  the  floor  facing 
me,  and  looking  very  serious,  "  if  I  live  to  be  a  hundred 
and  fifty,  I  will  never  tell  you." 

"  I  shall  have  to  ask  him,  then ;  he  will  tell  me  quickly 
enough,"  answer  I,  nettled,  and  rising  to  my  feet  again. 

"  Perhaps  ;  very  likely,"  rejoins  she,  curtly. 

"  But  you  will  come  down  to  dinner,  like  a  good  child," 
say  T,  coaxingly,  as  I  wrestle  with  a  white  muslin  Gari- 
baldi, which  has  shrunk  in  the  washing,  and  is  too  small 
to  contain  my  charms. 

"  I  will  not." 

"  But  you  have  had  no  luncheon  ?  " 

"  No." 

"Nor  afternoon  tea?" 

"No." 

"  You  would  probably  be  at  a  distance  of  half  a  mile 


96  "  GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!  » 

from  him,"  say  I,  encouragingly;  "the  table  is  as  long  as 
from  here  to  England ;  I  saw  it." 

"  Jemima,"  replies  Lenore,  gravely,  looking  at  me  with 
ner  large,  solemn  eyes,  "  I  might  sit  exactly  opposite  to 
him,  and  that  would  kill  me  on  the  spot." 

I  shrug  my  shoulders. 

"  He  is  ugly  enough,  certainly,"  I  say,  severely ;  "  but 
he  is  hardly  such  a  Medusa's  head  that  it  is  death  to  look 
at  him. 

But  Lenore  is  obdurate. 

"I  had  rather  die  than  go  down,"  she  says,  with  the 
tragic  exaggeration  of  youth,  shaking  her  head,  and  all 
the  shining  tangles  of  hair  that  ripple  about  her  throat. 

The  bell  rings,  tingling  and  jangling  through  the  open 
doors  and  narrow  passages.  I  am  obliged  to  go  down 
alone,  in  my  shrunk  muslin  Garibaldi  and  shabby  old 
black-silk  skirt,  into  a  crowd  of  bearded  English  and  shorn 
French,  who  are  gathered  to  raven  like  wolves  in  the  salle 
d  manger.  I  leave  Lenore  lying  prone  on  the  parquet, 
hungry  and  frowning,  and  slaying  an  occasional  beetle 
with  her  slipper.  At  dinner  I  sit  between  the  landlord 
and  a  close-shaved  little  Breton,  with  a  vast  and  greasy 
appetite.  In  silence  and  loneliness  I  raven  like  my  neigh- 
bors. Mr.  Le  Mesurier  fulfils  my  prophecy ;  he  is  half  a 
mile  off.  Now  and  again  I  have  a  vision  of  his  leonine 
beard  between  the  thirteen  or  fourteen  intervening  guests, 
and  of  a  handsome  blond  head  beyond  him.  On  remount- 
ing to  our  garret  I  find  that  Lenore  has  resumed  her  clothes, 
and  is  sitting  on  the  window-sill,  pelting  a  stray  dog  in  the 
court-yard  with  cherry-stones.  Her  eyes  turn  with  a  sort 
of  anxiety  to  me  as  I  enter. 

"  Well,  well,"  say  I,  spitefully,  "  there  was  an  excellent 
dinner ;  I  have  brought  you  a  *  menu?  to  show  you  what 
you  have  lost : 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  97 

*  POTAGE. — Vermicelli. 

'  POISSONS. — Soles,  fines  herbes. 

'  ENTREES. — Jambon  Made  re.    Poulets  sautes.     Champignons — '  " 

"  Pooh ! "  interrupts  my  sister,  impatiently.  "  What 
do  I  care  ?  Well,  did  you — did  you  see  him  ?  " 

"I  caught  a  glimpse  now  and  then  of  his  chestnut 
curls,"  reply  I,  banteringly ;  "  only  a  glimpse,  though,  as 
he  was  at  least  a  kilometre  off." 

"Did  he  see  you?" 

"  Probably  not ;  the  dear  fellow  did  not  seem  to  have 
eyes  for  any  thing  but  his  dinner." 

"  He  did  not  miss  me,  then  ? "  with  an  accent  of 
chagrin. 

"  If  he  did,  he  disguised  it  admirably." 

"  I  might  have  gone  down,  after  all." 

"  Perfectly." 

She  picks  up  the  menu.  " ;  Jambon  Madere ' — how 
good  it  sounds  !  Why  did  you  not  ask  it  to  walk  up-stairs  ? 
Jemima,  are  there  any  biscuits  left  in  your  bag  ?  " 

I  investigate,  and  find  half  a  one,  and  a  great  many 
dusty  crumbs,  upon  which  my  sister  pounces,  as  a  kitten 
upon  a  ball  of  worsted. 

"  I  could  not,  conscientiously,  say  the  children's  grace, 
4  Thank  God  for  my  good  dinner,'  "  she  says,  shaking  her 
head.  "  Jemima,  let  us  go  out." 

"  It  is  only  eight  o'clock,  and  the  pardon  does  not  begin 
till  nine." 

"  Never  mind ;  there  is,  at  all  events,  more  to  see  in 
the  town  than  there  is  here,  and  I  shall  be  more  likely  to 
forget  that  fifteen  hours  must  elapse  before  I  see  food 
again." 

So  we  go  and  pass  through  the  court-yard,  and  out  into 
the  cheerful,  swarming  streets.     The  prospect  of  having  a 
year's  sins  wiped  off  seems  pleasant,  for  all  faces  look  gay. 
5 


98  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

The  town  is  thronged  with  exquisitely-starched,  clean 
lace  caps,  sticking  out  half  a  mile  behind  their  owners' 
heads — thronged  with  broad  felt  hats,  and  loose  embroid- 
ered waistcoats,  trimmed  with  chains  of  silver  buttons. 
They  are  like  peasants  in  a  melodrama — real  benighted 
peasants — who  have  not  yet  begun  to  tell  themselves  that 
they  are  quite  as  good  as  their  betters,  and  that  there  is  no 
reason  why  they  should  not  wear  hats  and  bonnets  of  ex- 
actly the  same  shape  and  fabric.  But  even  here  Innovation 
is  laying  her  ugly  hand.  Even  Brittany  is  setting  forth  on 
the  road  that  leads  to  chimneypot-hats  and  shooting-coats ; 
even  here  the  ancient  Breton  costume,  in  all  its  purity,  is 
the  exception ;  the  old  world  trunk-hose  of  yesterday  is 
ceding  to  the  new-world  trousers  of  to-day. 

We  stroll  slowly  up  through  the  chattering  crowd, 
among  long-haired,  lank  men,  and  laughing,  weather-beaten 
women.  On  most  Breton  faces  is  written,  "  Life  to  us  is 
arduous."  No  one  is  drunk,  and  no  one  was  swearing. 
"  How  can  they  be  happy,  then  ? "  would  be  the  thought 
of  an  English  working-man  ;  but  they  are,  or,  at  least,  they 
look  so. 

The  church  is  already  lit,  though  it  is  yet  day — little 
points  of  yellow  light,  flickering  feebly  in  the  broad,  white 
light  of  the  summer  evening.  "We  mount  the  steps — 
mount  them  gingerly,  lest  we  should  tread  on  the  outspread 
legs  of  the  crowded  worshippers,  crowded  as  swarmed  bees, 
upon  the  steps,  and  in  the  porch,  before  an  image  there. 
We  enter  the  church ;  censers  are  swinging  slowly ;  the 
fragrant  hush  of  a  holy  gloom  is  spread  between  the  dim, 
high  arches — gloom  that  the  thousand  little  yellow  lights 
are  fighting  against.  Grown  men,  with  swart  heads  bent, 
and  doffed  hats  in  their  rough  hands ;  women  ;  little,  prim 
children  in  caps  like  their  mothers',  and  petticoats  down  to 
their  little  heels,  all — all  are  prostrate  before  each  gaudy 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  99 

shrine,  sending  up  their  simple  souls  in  prayer  to  God's 
great  mother. 

Not  to  her  alone,  however.  As  thickly  as  about  the 
crowned  and  sceptred  virgin  the  people  press  around  a 
brass  head,  with  a  glass  window  in  its  chest,  and  its  nose 
blackened  by  the  salutations  of  many  past  years  and  gen- 
erations. Standing  a  few  paces  off,  I  am  watching  a  tall 
youth  who,  with  long,  thick  hair  hanging  straight  and 
black  about  his  harsh,  melancholy  face,  is  stooping  to  kiss 
the  uncouth,  brazen  feature,  when  an  English  voice  sounds 
low  and  laughing  in  my  ear  : 

"  Worse  than  the  pope's  toe,  is  not  it  ?  "  I  give  an 
angry  start.  Devotion  is  as  catching  as  mumps.  Without 
any  feeling  of  the  ridiculous,  I  could  have  followed  the 
Breton  boy's  example,  and  kissed  the  blackened  nose. 
Paul  Le  Mesurier  is  beside  me,  and,  beyond  him,  heedless 
of  the  praying  Bretons,  staring  with  all  his  blue  eyes  at 
Lenore,  stands  a  fair,  handsome  youth,  leaning  against  a 
pillar. 

"  Is  it  wicked  to  introduce  people  in  church  ?  "  asks 
Paul,  sotto  voce.  "  I  cannot  help  it  if  it  is ;  I  have  had 
no  peace  since. — Scrope,  let  me  introduce  you  to  Miss  Her- 
rick." 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

WHAT     THE     AUTHOR     SATS. 

"  I  HOPE  you  are  better,  Miss  Lenore,"  says  Paul,  leav- 
ing his  friend  and  his  acquaintance  together,  and  treading 
his  way  between  the  kneeling  country-people  to  where  the 
young  girl  stands  with  her  back  resolutely  turned  to  him, 


v& 


100  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

and  her  eyes  as  resolutely  fixed  upon  the  high  altar,  aflame 
with  lights  and  laden  with  flowers. 

"  Better  of  what  ? "  she  asks,  brusquely,  not  turning 
toward  him. 

"I  always  think  there  must  be  something  radically 
wrong  with  a  person  who  foregoes  her  dinner  in  a  land 
where  luncheon  is  unknown,"  he  answers,  trying  to  get  a 
peep  round  the  corner  into  her  averted  face. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  I  forewent  my  dinner  ?  "  she 
inquires,  sharply,  glancing  at  him  for  an  instant,  and  then 
looking  away  again  as  quickly." 

"  I  saw  your  sister,  and  I  did  not  see  you." 

"  I  dined  up-stairs,"  she  answers,  shortly.  He  looks 
at  her  doubtfully. 

"  Did  you,  really  ?.  Why  ?  " 

"  I  hate  talking  in  church,"  she  says,  flashing  round 
impatiently  at  him ;  "  it  is  irreverent." 

"  So  do  I ;  the  incense  gets  into  my  head.  Let  us  go 
outside." 

"  You  may  go,  if  you  choose,"  she  says,  setting  her 
back  against  a  pillar,  and  resolutely  ignoring  his  presence. 
"  I  prefer  to  stay  here." 

A  little  child  kneeling  at  her  feet  in  a  close  calico  cap, 
with  a  rosary  between  its  little  fingers,  stares  up  wonder- 
ingly,  with  wide  eyes,  at  the  monsieur  and  the  madame, 
standing  so  erect  and  chattering  so  irreverently  in  the 
great  solemn  church. 

"  Your  sister  and  Scrope  are  going  down  the  steps 
now,"  he  says,  stooping  a  little  to  whisper  to  her  in  defer- 
ence to  the  sacred  place,  while  an  amused  gleam  flashes  in 
his  eyes.  "  The  procession  will  begin  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour.  Come ! " 

She  makes  a  half  movement  of  compliance. 

"  Mind,"  she  says,  looking  at  him,  defiantly,  "  I  am  com- 


WE  A  T  TEE  A  UTtfOR  $AYS  101 

ing,  not  in  the  least  because  you  ask  me,  but  because  I  do 
not  want  to  miss  this  fine  sight." 

The  street  is  fuller  than  ever.  The  dusk  is  drawing  on. 
Gendarmes  in  cocked  hats  and  tail-coats ;  tight-belted,  red- 
legged  soldiers,  leavening  the  mass  of  the  peasants.  A 
woman  at  a  stall  selling  candles — candles  as  thick  as  your 
waist ;  candles  as  thick  as  your  wrist ;  candles  no  thicker 
than  your  finger.  Every  one  is  buying,  each  person  laying 
down  his  francs  or  centimes,  and  walking  proudly  off  with 
a  hollow  taper  as  tall  as  himself. 

"  You  have  not  forgiven  me  yet,  then  ?  "  says  Le  Me- 
surier,  as  he  elbows  a  way  for  his  companion  between  the 
woollen-shawled  women  and  embroidered-jacketed  men. 

"  Forgiven  you  for  what  ?  "  she  asks,  resolutely  obtuse, 
while  her  cheeks  show  a  sudden  rivalship  with  the  poppy- 
bunch  in  her  hat. 

"  For  my — my  unlucky  embassy,"  he  answers,  with  a 
rather  awkward  laugh. 

She  looks  away  from  him  to  the  illuminated  church,  at 
once  bright  and  dark  against  the  warm  gloom  of  the  June 
twilight. 

"  I  thought  it  was  very  officious  of  you,"  she  answers, 
coldly. 

"  Officious  !  "  echoes'  he,  quickly,  while  his  own  tanned 
cheeks  catch  the  pretty  angry  poppy  hue.  "  Do  you  sup- 
pose I  did  it  for  my  own  pleasure  ?  Do  you  suppose  that 
I  ever,  in  all  my  life,  had  a  job  that  I  hated  more  ?  " 

"  Why  did  you  undertake  it,  then  ? "  asks  the  girl, 
dryly. 

"  Because  I  was  living  in  the  same  house  with  him ; 
because  I  had  no  peace  day  or  night ;  because  I  was  sick 
of  the  sound  of  your  name ;  because — poor  little  beggar ! — 
he  cried— yes,  actually  cried!  If  I  said  '  No '  once,  I  said 
it  a  hundred  times." 


102  "(iOOD'-BfE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  It  was  a  pity  that  you  did  not  say  it  a  hundred  and 
one  times." 

"I  not  only,"  continues  Paul,  becoming  exasperated, 
and  consequently  spiteful,  while  his  usually  quiet  eyes  give 
a  cold  flash,  "  I  not  only  declined  the  office  for  myself,  but 
I  did  all  I  could  to  dissuade  him  from  asking  you  himself." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  I  told  him  that,  if  he  did  induce  you  to  marry  him, 
you  would  make  him  rue  the  day." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  I  told  him  how  utterly  unsuited  you  were  for  a  par- 
son's wife." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  How  much  more  suited  to  him  your  sister  was." 

"Thank  you;  two  'thank  yous,'  indeed — one  for  my- 
self, and  one  for  Jemima." 

"  He  had  some  fatuous  idea  in  his  head  of  being  able 
to  mould  you  into  the  proper  clerical  shape ;  but  I  flatter 
myself  I,  at  all 'events,  succeeded  in  weeding  that  gro- 
tesque notion  out  of  his  mind." 

"  In  short,"  says  Lenore,  turning  sharply  upon  him  a 
lovely  crimson  face,  like  a  blown  rose,  and  proud  eyes  try- 
ing to  wink  away  the  mortified  tears,  "  in  short,  not  satis- 
fied* with  hating  me  yourself,  you  have  been  doing  your 
best  to  make  one  of  my  few  friends  hate  me  too." 

"  Well,  at  all  events,"  retorts  he,  smiling,  and  recover- 
ing his  good-humor  at  the  same  moment  as  she  loses  hers, 
"at  all  events,  I  did  not  succeed;  for,  despite  all  my  dis- 
suasions, you  see,  he  still  wished  to  gain  you." 

The  crowd  grows  thicker  and  thicker.  In  five  minutes 
the  procession  will  begin.  Leaning  over  a  little  balcony 
above  them,  some  English  ladies  and  gentlemen  are  laugh- 
ing real  English  laughs,  unlike  the  high  cascades  of  shrill 
French  laughter. 


WE  A  T  THE  A  UTEOR  SA  YS.  103 

"  We  shall  be  hustled  to  death  down  here,"  says  Paul, 
lifting  his  high  head  to  look  over  the  press.  "  We  ought 
to  have  secured  a  window,  like  those  Britishers  up  there. 
It  is  not  too  late  now.  Let  us  ask  the  candle-woman." 

The  candle-woman  turns  from  the  diminished  heap  of 
her  tapers  to  listen  politely  to  Paul's  slow,  laborious  Eng- 
lish-French. 

"  Monsieur  and  madame  desire  a  croisee,  in  order  to  see 
the  procession  ?  Mais  oui,  certainement.  If  monsieur  and 
madame  will  have  the  goodness  to  follow  her,  she  will  con- 
duct them." 

So  saying,  she  leads  them  under  an  archway,  through 
an  empty  workshop,  and  up  a  perfectly  dark  and  filthy 
flight  of  stone  stairs.  The  room  to  which  they  at  length 
attain  belongs  to  a  Uanchisseme.  It  is  low  and  poor,  but 
very  clean.  Neatly-starched  caps  are  hanging  on  a  line 
across  the  room ;  two  tidy  little  beds  are  in  the  small  recess- 
es ;  a  crucifix  hangs  over  the  chimney-piece ;  and  an  ex- 
cruciating smell  from  the  gutter  below  rises  up  to  their  of- 
fended nostrils.  The  owner  of  the  apartment,  having  ex- 
pressed an  obliging  hope  that  madame  will  not  be  "  trap 
genee  par  Vodeur"  and,  having  placed  a  hassock  on  the 
low  sill  for  Lenore  to  lean  her  arms  upon,  leaves  her  visi- 
tors in  peace.  Paul  stands  upright  and  silent,  with  an  ex- 
pression of  face  as  if  he  were  trying  entirely  to  repress  the 
faculty  of  smell.  Lenore  lets  her  eyes  wander  round,  and 
gives  the  reins  to  her  imagination. 

Supposing  that  this  garret  were  her  home — hers  and 
Paul's ;  supposing  that  she  spent  her  life  in  ironing  caps, 
and  hanging  them  on  lines.  Supposing  that  Paul  spent 
his  in  digging  in  the  fields,  and  came  back  at  night  to  ga- 
lette  and  cider,  in  a  broad  Breton  hat  and  trunk  hose. 
Good  Heavens  !  how  ugly  he  would  look !  She  breaks  off 
her  suppositions  to  smile  involuntarily  at  the  idea. 


104  "  GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!  " 

"  What  are  you  smiling  at  ?  "  asks  Paul,  stooping  over 
her,  and  swallowing  a  large  mouthful  of  bouquet  de  gutter 
as  he  speaks. 

"  Must  I  tell  you,  really  f  "  she  asks,  lifting  her  face — 
every  dimple  full  of  mischievous  laughter — to  his. 

"Yes." 

"  I  was  thinking,  then — mind,  you  made  me  tell  you — 
how  ugly  you  would  look  in  a  flapping  felt  hat  and  trunk 
hose." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  he  answers,  carelessly.  "  I  can  assure 
you  that  I  am  nothing  to  what  I  was  when  I  was  a  boy. 
In  my  old  regiment  we  used  to  pique  ourselves  upon  being 
the  ugliest  corps  in  the  service  ;  we  had  not  a  decent-look- 
ing fellow  among  us." 

There  is  a  little  pause.  Everybody  is  lighting  his  or 
her  candle ;  one  or  two  unlucky  mortals  have  broken  theirs 
off  in  the  middle. 

"  Did  you  really  think  I  should  marry  Frederick  ?  " 
asks  Lenore  presently,  with  abruptness. 

"How  could  I  tell?" 

"  But  did  you  think  it  probable  f  " 

"  If  I  were  a  woman,  I  do  not  think  I  should  care  about 
undertaking  him,"  he  answers,  laughing.  "  But  you  might 
have  done  worse." 

She  looks  away,  vexed  ;  she  could  hardjy  have  said  why. 

"  He  is  exactly  five  feet  two  inches  high,"  she  says, 
scornfully,  drawing  up  her  long,  white  throat,  and  looking 
insultingly  tall. 

"  Do  you  mete  out  your  love  to  a  man  according  to  his 
inches  ?  "  he  asks,  leaning  his  arms  on  the  back  of  his 
chair,  and  laughing  again. 

"  He  has  a  nose  like  a  piece  of  putty." 

"  He  has." 

"  He  wears  barnacles." 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SATS.  105 

"He  does." 

"  And  goloshes." 

"Yes." 

"  He  plays  the  concertina  at  tea-parties." 

"Does  he?" 

"  And  sings,  '  I'm  a  nervous  man.' " 

"  So  he  is." 

"  He  turns  up  his  trousers  at  the  bottom  when  it  rains." 

"  Well,  why  should  he  not  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  impossible,"  says  the  young  girl,  with 
trenchant  emphasis,  "  to  marry  a  man  who  did  any  one  of 
those  things ;  it  is  a  thousand  times  more  impossible  to 
marry  a  man  who  does  them  all" 

"  He  would  let  you  have  your  own  way  in  every, thing, 
big  or  little ;  he  would  let  you  ride  rough-shod  over  him. 
It  would  be  very  bad  for  you,  but  I  suppose  it  would  please 
you,"  answers  Paul,  half  cynically,  taking  in,  with  an  un- 
comfortable, unwilling  glance,  the  poppy-crowned  hat ;  the 
eyes,  dew-soft  yet  spirited  ;  the  fine  nostrils,  and  blood-red 
lips,  half  parted,  as  if  for  some  sweet  speech  of  his  young 
companion. 

"  Perhaps  it  would,  perhaps  it  would  not,"  she  answers, 
gently.  "  I  have  never  loved  anybody  yet — never ;  at  least, 
not  for  long — not  for  more  than  two  days ;  but,  of  course, 
I  shall  some  day ;  and  then,  I  suppose — I  fancy — I  im- 
agine "  (stammering)  "  that  what  he  likes,  I  shall  like." 

Is  ifc  some  reflection  from  the  lights  outside,  or  are 
her  cheeks  a  shade  more  deeply  colored  than  usual,  as  she 
lifts  her  eyes,  with  a  sort  of  tender  trouble  in  their  shady 
depths,  to  his  ? 

He  shakes  his  head. 

"  May  I  be  there  to  see ! "  he  says,  with  a  light  laugh  ; 
but  there  is  no  laugh  in  his  eyes — instead,  an  eager  gravity, 
touched  with  the  stirrings  of  a  restless  passion.  When  an 


106  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

uncivil  woman  is  to  you  alone  civil,  when  a  cold  woman  is 
for  you  alone  warm,  when  a  high-spirited  woman  is  for  you 
alone  meek,  the  flattery  is  trebled  in  value.  It  is  difficult 
to  feel  sentimental  in  a  very  bad  smell ;  but  I  think,  if  you 
asked  him,  Paul  Le  Mesurier  would  tell  you  that  he  accom- 
plished that  feat  in  the  little  Guingamp  garret.  The  pro- 
cession is  really  beginning,  at  last ;  out  of  the  lit  church- 
doors  it  streams,  and  the  surging  sea  of  heads  parts  and 
cleaves  asunder  to  make  way  for  it.  Gilt  and  colored  lamps 
lead  the  way,  carried  by  Breton  peasants;  then  the  relics 
of  a  saint  in  a  gilt  case ;  then  a  troop  of  young  girls  in 
white,  clear  and  clean  as  St.  Agnes ;  then  a  troop  of  sail- 
ors, also  in  white,  with  red  sashes — two  carrying  a  little 
model  pf  a  ship,  two  carrying  a  gilt  anchor  between  them  ; 
then  a  wax  figure  in  a  red-silk  petticoat,  carried  on  a  bier. 

"  It  is  le  petit  Saint- Vincent ! "  cries  the  good  woman 
of  the  house,  in  high  excitement,  clasping  her  hands,  "  car- 
ried by  Basse-Bretagne  peasants,  clad  in  soutanes  for  the 
occasion,  an  honor  for  which  they  will  have  to  pay  high. 
Has  madame  observed  him  ?  How  pretty  he  is  !  how 
fresh !  how  white !  as  white  as  a  little  chicken." 

"And  who  is  le  petit  Saint-Vincent  when  he  is  at 
home  ?  "  asks  Paul,  in  crass  ignorance  of  the  Roman  Catho- 
lic calendar. 

"  He  was  martyrized  at  fourteen  years,"  explains  the 
woman  ;  and  so  falls  into  fresh  raptures. 

"  O !  qu'il  est  gentil,  le  petit  Saint-Vincent !  H  est  si 
frais  !  si  rose ! " 

"  If  she  is  so  much  struck  with  le  petit  Saint-Vincent, 
what  would  not  she  be  with  Madame  Tussaud's  establish- 
ment ?  "  says  Paul,  laughing  and  leaning  on  the  sill. 

He  is  past  now — he  and  his  red  petticoat.  La  bonne 
Dame  des  hommes  follows  close  on  his  heels,  borne  on  de- 
vout shoulders ;  then  the  brass  head  with  the  blackened 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  107 

nose  waggles  along ;  then  gray-haired  priests,  in  glorious, 
flowered  damask  robes,  holding  high  the  effigy,  in  ivory  and 
gold,  of  the  slaughtered  Christ ;  then  two  bishops  in 
mitres ;  then  a  great  flood  of  snowy  caps  and  broad- 
brimmed  beavers ;  everybody  with  a  candle — some  big, 
some  little,  but  everybody  with  one.  It  is  the  greatest 
wonder  how  they  managed  to  avoid  setting  fire  to  each 
other.  All  together,  singing  loudly  yet  sweetly,  they  float 
away  slowly  into  the  distance. 

Half  caught  by  the  infection  of  their  devotion,  Lenore 
throws  herself  forward  half  through  the  rusty  casement  to 
look  down  the  street — one  sea  of  waving  light,  an  undula- 
ting river  of  light,  rather,  flowing  between  the  two  dark 
banks  of  the  houses  on  either  side.  The  soft  glamour  of  the 
summer  moonrise  makes  glorious  each  little  detail  of  the 
queer  pretty  show.  The  colored  lamps  sparkle  like  real 
great  jewels — rubies,  sapphires,  amethysts — through  the 
cool  night.  The  young  girls'  dresses  shine  dazzlingly,  can- 
descently  white  ;  even  the  brass  head  with  the  black  nose 
is  transmuted  to  gold. 

"  What  a  pleasant,  easy  way  of  getting  to  heaven  !  " 
ba}*s  Lenore,  withdrawing  her  head.  "  I  wish  I  could  be- 
lieve that  a  big  candle  and  a  kiss  to  little  Saint- Vincent 
would  take  me  there  !  " 

"  Do  not  you  think  we  have  had  almost  enough  of  this  ?" 
asks  Le  Mesurier,  rather  indistinctly,  from  between  the 
folds  of  his  pocket-handkerchief,  in  which  he  has  now  com- 
pletely enveloped  his  nose  and  mouth.  "  O  libelled  Co- 
logne !  If  Coleridge  had  but  smelt  Guingamp  !  " 

So  they  descend  into  the  street.  The  procession  is  to 
circle  round  the  town,  chanting  always,  and  ree'nter  the 
church  by  another  door.  It  will  be  some  time  before  this 
is  accomplished.  Meanwhile,  people  still  swarm  in  the 
space  before  the  church — women  in  close,  stiff,  black  bon- 


108  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

nets  or  hats,  and  big  black  collars  to  match,  taking  one 
back  to  the  reign  of  Edward  VI. ;  dark,  sad-faced,  lean 
men.  These  are  from  the  very,  very  Basse  Bretagne. 
They  are  so  poor,  so  poor !  They  have  come  on  foot  many 
a  weary  mile,  to  have  their  sins  forgiven ;  they  will  sleep 
in  the  street  to-night,  and  at  cock-crow  to-morrow  set  forth 
on  the  trudge  back  to  their  far,  lone  homes.  Others,  with 
almost  low-necked  dresses,  and  wide,  loose  muslin  collars. 
They  are  all  tramping  hither  and  thither,  talking  very  mer- 
rily, hustling  Paul  and  Lenore  with  their  stout  Breton 
elbows,  threatening  them  with  their  heavy  sabots,  which  at 
any  moment  may  come  pounding  down  on  their  feet. 

"  You  had  better  take  my  arm,"  says  Paul,  with  a  pro- 
tecting air,  as  they  move  slowly  along.  "  I  might  easily 
mislay  you  in  this  crush,  and,  if  I  did,  it  would  be  like 
looking  for  a  needle  in  a  bottle  of  hay  to  try  and  find  you 
again." 

"  It  would  be  no  great  harm  if  you  did  mislay  me,"  she 
answers,  with  a  pretty  air  of  independence.  "  Ij  who  have 
travelled  all  over  England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland,  quite  by 
myself,  am  hardly  afraid  of  coming  to  harm  in  the  half- 
dozen  safe  yards  that  intervene  between  here  and  the  H6- 
tel  de  France." 

"  What  business  had  you  to  travel  all  over  England, 
Scotland,  and  Ireland,  by  yourself?"  he  asks,  brusquely. 
"  It  was  very  wrong  of  your  people  to  let  you." 

"  Of  course,"  she  answers,  with  irony,  "  of  course,  I 
ought  to  have  had  a  maid  to  carry  my  dressing-case,  and  a 
footman  to  take  my  ticket  and  look  after  my  luggage.  So 
I  will,  some  day,  when  I  marry  the  Marquis  of  Carrabas,  or 
— or  Frederick  !  " 

"  You  will  never  marry  Frederick ! "  he  says  vehement- 
ly, involuntarily  pressing  the  small  hand  that  lies  on  his 
arm  close  to  his  side.  "  Never  !  NEVEK  ! ! "  (looking  down 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  109 

at  her  face,  on  which  the  flaring  candles  are  throwing  ca- 
pricious little  crimson  flushes). 

"Shall  not  I?"  she  says,  lifting  her  limpid  innocent 
gaze  to  his.  "  I  do  not  know."  He  is  silent,  at  least  as 
far  as  speech  goes.  He  has  forgotten  the  pardon,  the 
white  caps,  the  thronging  peasants.  His  reason  is  drown- 
ing fast — -fast — in  the  unfathomed  wells  of  a  woman's  slate- 
blue  eyes.  "  You  told  me  just  now  that  I  might  do  worse," 
she  says,  under  her  breath. 

"  So  you  might,"  he  sa3rs,  with  some  excitement.  "  So 
you  might.  I  said  true :  you  might  "  (with  a  rather  reck- 
less laugh) — "  you  might  marry — me  !  who  am  the  younger 
son  of  a  younger  son — have  not  a  sixpence  to  bless  myself 
with,  and  have  the  devil's  own  temper  to  boot." 

At  his  words  her  head  droops  forward,  like  a  snow- 
drop's, weighed  down  with  a  heavy  shame;  her  hand  falls 
.from  his  arm.  It  is  past  eleven  o'clock;  the  people  are 
hurrying  into  church  again  for  the  midnight  mass.  At  the 
door  every  one  gives  up  his  or  her  candle  to  men  stationed 
to  receive  them.  There  is  a  great  heap,  as  high  as  your 
shoulder,  already  in  the  porch.  A  throng  of  peasants — 
lean,  long  men ;  stout,  square  women  ;  big  lads — come 
pushing  by,  nearly  hoisting  Lenore  off  her  legs.  As  they 
pass  she  utters  a  little  sharp  cry  of  pain. 

"  What  is  it  ?  Are  you  hurt  ?  "  asks  Paul,  vigorously 
shouldering  aside  the  peasants,  who  are  beginning  to  crowd 
again  as  thickly  as  ever,  and  digging  his  elbows  viciously 
into  the  plump  ribs  of  a  matron  behind  him. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  she  says,  a  little  faintly ;  "  one  of  them 
trod  on  me,  I  think,  and  a  sabot  is  not  the  lightest — there ! " 
(beginning  to  laugh  a  little),  "  do  not  look  as  if  you  were 
bent  on  knocking  somebody  down ;  it  would  be  sure  to  be 
the  wrong  somebody." 

"  You  are  hurt,"  he  says,  with  vague  indignation,  gaz- 


110  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

ing  down  solicitously  at  the  cheeks  that  the  little  sudden 
pain  has  drained  of  their  sweet,  red  blood  ;  "  I  know  you 
are,  only  you  are  too  spirited  to  own  it." 

"You  are  wrong,"  she  says,  smiling;  "  from  a  child  I 
have  always  cried  out  before  I  was  hurt." 

"  Lean  on  me ;  lean  all  your  weight  on  me,"  says  Paul, 
obligingly,  drawing  her  away  out  of  the  press,  and  into  a 
little  side  street. 

4<  Ah !  here  is  a  door  step — let  us  sit  down  and  rest." 

The  little  street  is  quite  dark,  at  least  on  the  side  where 
Paul  and  Lenore  are;  as  dark  as  the  Place  du  Guesclin 
under  the  limes.  Only  on  the  faces  of  the  houses  opposite 
the  moonbeams  are  sliding  pearl-white. 

"  I  never  could  bear  paid|"  says  the  girl,  languidly, 
leaning  her  back  against  the  closed  door  of  the  unseen 
house.  "I  never  could  understand  that  line  of  Long- 
fellow's— 

*  To  suffer  and  be  strong.' 

4  To  suffer  and  scream?  is  my  version." 

There  is  a  momentary  pause  between  them.  They  are 
beginning  to  feel  as  if  they  need  not  be  talking  all  the 
while.  In  the  deep  shade  where  they  are  sitting  they  can 
hardly  see  each  other's  face :  they  only  feel  one  another's 
pleasant  proximity.  The  tramp,  tramp  of  wooden  shoes, 
the  distant  chant,  bandied  about,  tossed  this  way  and  that 
by  the  frolic  airs,  come,  now  loud,  now  low,  to  their  ears. 

"  I  wonder  what  time  it  is  ?  "  says  Lenore,  presently, 
reluctantly  breaking  the  happy  silence  ;  "  ten  ?  eleven  ? 
twelve  ?  " 

"  \Vhat  does  it  matter  ?  "  replies  Paul,  indolently,  clasp- 
ing his  hands  behind  his  head.  She  is  the  exact  opposite 
of  everything  he  has  hitherto  thought  good  and  fair  in 
woman.  Her  very  beauty — large  and  noble — is  the  reverse 
of  the  small,  meek  prettiness  that  has  hitherto  been  his 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  Ill 

ideal,  and  yet — and  yet  it  is  pleasant  to  him  to  sit  in  the 
dry,  warm  gloom  beside  her,  while  the  night  winds,  fresh 
from  the  tanned  haycocks,  fondle  his  hair  with  lightest, 
gentlest  hands.  The  church-clock  strikes  midnight :  each 
slow  stroke  falling  on  the  air  like  a  rebuke. 

"  I  must  go,"  replies  the  girl,  half-frightened,  springing 
to  her  fe'et. 

"  Go ! "  repeats  Paul,  impatiently,  rising  too.  "  Why 
must  you  ?  Shall  we  be  better  off  in  two  stuffy  garrets  in 
the  Hotel  de  France,  apart,  than  here  together  f  " 

They  are  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  street :  a  tall, 
ugly  man,  a  tall,  beautiful  woman  (men  always  have  the 
best  of  the  bargains  in  this  world).  She  has  taken  off  her 
hat :  it  hangs  with  its  coquettish  poppies  and  black  ribbons 
in  her  drooped  right  hand ;  the  moon  is  throwing  little  jets 
of  silver  on  the  waveless  sweep  of  her  hair. 

"  We  shall  at  least  be  less  likely  to  take  cold,"  she  an- 
swers, demurely. 

But  Paul  is  losing  his  head.  Lenore  and  the  moon- 
shine are  too  much  for  him. 

"  Cold  ? "  he  repeats,  crossly.  "  You  never  thought 
about  cold  that  happy  night  when  we  went  on  the  Ranee 
together." 

"  That  happy  night,  when  you  tried  so  hard  to  get  out 
of  going,  and  said  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed,"  she  answers, 
mockingly,  while  her  eyes  for  the  moment  lose  their  love- 
light,  and  glitter  maliciously.  He  laughs  rather  consciously. 
"  That  happy  night  when  you  soaked  all  the  color  out  of 
my  blue  ribbons,  and  drowned  my  best  hat  for  me,"  con- 
tinues she,  gayly.  "  No,  no !  we  will  have  no  more  happy 
nights.  My  wardrobe  would  not  stand  it!  Come,  let 
us  go ! " 


112  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

WHAT     JEMIMA     SAYS. 

"  IT  is  too  late  now,"  says  Lenore,  with  a  sulky  pout, 
leaning  her  arms  on  the  top  of  the  wrought-iron  rails  of  the 
balcony ;  "  I'Am&icaine  is  at  the  door." 

We  are  no  longer  at  Guingamp.  We  have  moved  on 
to  Morlaix,  and  are  lodged  in  a  certain  hostelry,  that  is 
scented  through  and  through  with  the  ill  odor  arising  from 
the  very  unclean  stable  over  which  it  is  built : 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  tell  its  name, 
Because  it  is  so  much  to  blame." 

No  one  dislikes  the  smell  of  a  clean  stable.  The  warm, 
pungent  odor  that  greets  you,  when  you  go  to  see  your 
friend's  hunters,  need  offend  no  well-educated  nostrils ;  but 
the  terrific  reek  that  ascends  from  the  lodgings  of  the 
Breton  beasts  of  hire,  that  you  swallow,  nolens  volens,  in 
bed,  in  your  bath,  with  your  tea,  with  your  cider — which 
enters  not  only  your  nose  and  mouth,  but  even  your  very 
eyes  and  ears — is  trying  to  the  least  sensitive  organs. 

We  two  are  seated — by-the-by,  Lenore  is  standing — in 
a  little  salon  whose  balcony  overlooks  the  street,  and 
whence  we  may  spy  the  passers  below,  keep  a  lookout  on 
Lozach,  D'ebitant  de  boissons,  opposite,  and  refresh  our- 
selves with  a  slightly-varied  version  of  essence  of  manure. 
A  great  bow-pot,  full  of  immense  roses,  stands  at  my  elbow : 
each  several  rose  smells  mightily  of  tobacco :  a  phenome- 
non accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  the  salon  is  daily  resorted 
to  for  smoking  and  coffee-drinking  purposes  by  the  noble 
army  of  commercial  travellers  who  breakfast  and  dine  at 
the  table  d'hote.  When  "  ces  messieurs"  as  the  landlord. 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  113 

with  innocent  irony,  calls  them,  have  retired,  we  are  per- 
mitted to  enter,  and  work  our  own  wild  will  among 
the  tobaccoed  roses  and  the  jingling  old  spinet  in  the 
corner. 

"  It  is  too  late,"  says  Lenore,  from  the  balcony; "  1'Ame'- 
ricaine  is  at  the  door." 

"  It  would  be  very  easy  to  send  it  away  again,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"  I  suppose  it  would." 

"  I  do  not  believe  that  there  is  any  thing  to  see  at 
Huelgoat,"  say  I,  skeptically,  turning  over  the  leaves  of 
my  familiar  spirit,  "  Murray,"  and  hunting  among  the  H's 
in  the  index. 

"  I  dare  say  not." 

"  Nothing  but  lead-mines  and  a  reading-desk,"  say  I, 
having  found  the  place. 

"  Oh,  indeed ! " 

"  It  is,  then,  merely  for  the  pleasure  of  a  tete-d-tvte  with 
Mr.  Le  Mesurier  that  you  are  going  ?  "  cry  I,  raising  my 
voice  a  little,  for  fear  that  the  lazy  wind,  that  is  ruffling  the 
smoky  roses  and  swaying  the  muslin  curtains,  may  disperse 
my  gibe. 

"  Merely  for  the  pleasure  of  the  ttte-d~t$te  with  Mr.  Le 
Mesurier,  as  you  felicitously  observe,"  replies  my  sister, 
with  baffling  candor,  leaving  the  balcony,  and  coming  to 
stand  defiantly  before  me,  with  her  chin  a  little  raised,  and 
her  hands  folded  behind  her  back,  in  her  favorite  attitude, 
like  a  child  saying  its  lesson.  Some  people's  clothes  look 
as  if  they  were  thrown  on ;  some  as  if  they  were  put  on ; 
some  as  if  they  grew  on.  Lenore's  is  the  latter  case. 

"  I  should  have  thought  that  you  must  have  had  a  sur- 
feit of  those  delights  by  now,"  say  I,  disdainfully,  with  all 
an  outsider's  intolerance  for  the  insipid  repetitions  of  love- 
making. 


114  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

"  I  have  had  exactly  nine,"  answers  Lenore,  growing 
grave,  while  a  happy  absorption  fills  her  eyes ;  "  I  think  " 
(smiling)  "  I  must  make  it  a  dozen ;  and  then,  perhaps,  if 
Mr.  Scrope  is  very  good,  I  may  give  him  a  turn." 

I  feel  vexed,  and,  unable  and  unwilling  to  explain 
why,  rise,  and,  walking  over  to  a  little  etagtre  in  the  corner, 
begin  to  fiddle  with  some  deplorable  spar-boxes  with  "  A 
Present  from  Brighton  "  on  them ;  traces,  even  here,  of 
the  indefatigable  Briton,  who  has  inscribed  his  name  and 
that  of  his  blacking  on  the  pyramid  top.  Lenore  sits  down 
at  the  old  piano,  and  opens  it. 

"  You  might  be  man  and  wife,  from  the  way  in  which 
you  travel  about  together,"  say  I,  fuming. 

"  Perhaps  we  are,"  answers  Lenore,  with  a  laugh,  her 
low,  rippling  laughter  mixing  pleasantly  with  the  crash 
she  is  making  among  the  bass  notes ;  "  to  the  prophetic 
eye,  present  and  future  are  one." 

"  Heaven  forbid  !  "  say  I,  devoutly.  "  I  cannot  fancy 
calling  that  man  '  Paul,'  and  kissing  him,  as  I  suppose  one 
would  have  to  if  he  were  one's  brother-in-law ;  one  would 
lose  one's  self  in  the  intricacies  of  that  scarlet  beard." 

"  It  is  not  scarlet ! "  cries  Lenore,  in  a  fury,  wheeling 
round  on  the  music-stool ;  "  it  is  not  even  red." 

"  It  is  like  Graham's  hair  in  '  Villette,' "  reply  I,  grave- 
ly ;  "  whose  color  his  friends  did  not  dare  to  specify,  ex- 
cept when  the  sun  shone  on  it,  and  then  they  called  it 
golden." 

A  little  pause. 

"  I  do  not  think  that  two  young  women  in  our  position 
can  be  too  careful,"  say  I,  primly ;  "  and  really,  Lenore,  it 
is  hardly  advisable." 

"Advisable!"  interrupts  my  sister,  jumping  off  her 
stool  and  giving  a  little  stamp,  while  her  pretty  pink  nos- 
trils dilate  with  angry  wilfulness.  "  I  hate  the  word ;  it  is 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  115 

a  mean,  sneaking,  time-serving  word.  Either  a  thing  is 
right,  or  it  is  wrong  ;  if  it  is  not  right,  it  is  wrong :  and,  if 
it  is  not  wrong,  it  is  right.  If  it  is  not  wrong  to  take  a 
drive  on  a  summer  day  with  a  man  whose  society — " 

She  stops  as  if  she  had  been  shot.  The  door  has  open- 
ed, and  the  man  whose  society — is  looking  in  and  saying — 

"  Miss  Lenore,  are  you  ready  ?  " 

There  is  a  flushed  confusion  on  his  honest,  ugly  face,  as 
if  he  had  overheard  Lenore's  last  speech ;  and,  indeed,  as 
she  has  always  a  singularly  pure,  clear  enunciation,  and 
declaimed  this  last  sentence  in  a  high  key,  and  with  a  dis- 
tinct and  trenchant  emphasis,  I  do  not  see  how  the  poor 
man  could  well  help  it. 

"Am  I  ready?  "  says  Lenore,  with  an  awkward  laugh, 
turning  away  to  hide  her  discomfiture.  "  That  is  amusing ! 
A  man  keeps  one  waiting  an  hour  and  a  half,  and  then 
comes  and  asks  innocently,  '  Are  you  ready  ? ' ' 

At  the  door  stands  the  "  Ame"ricaine,"  so  called  because 
more  unlike  an  Am6ricaine  than  any  other  conceivable 
vehicle ;  a  little,  heavy,  jingling  rattletrap,  with  a  hood  in 
the  last  stage  of  shabbiness.  A  little  old  mare  in  her 
dotage,  and  a  tall  colt,  hardly  come  to  years  of  discretion, 
compose  the  team.  One  has  bells,  the  other  has  none ;  both 
are  smothered  under  immense  sheepskin  collars,  like  levia- 
than door-mats ;  the  flies  are  teasing  them  sadly.  A  noble 
army  of  beggars — 

" Men  and  boys, 

The  matron  and  the  maid," 

press  round  with  obliging  empressement ;  old,  blear-eyed 
men  beggars,  capped  and  long-frocked  little  girl  beggars — 
lame  boy  beggars — beggars  with  ingeniously-horrible  mal- 
formations of  Nature,  well  brought  forward  into  notice. 
"  So  this  is  a  walking-tour  through  Brittany,  is  it  Paul  ?  " 


116  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

asks  Mr.  Scrope,  pensively,  as  we  emerge  from  the  door. 
He  is  leaning  against  the  door-post,  looking  very  handsome, 
very  lazy,  and  half  asleep,  as  he  mostly  does.  "  So  this  is 
the  pedestrian  exercise  that  was  to  make  you  two  stone 
lighter  by  next  season ! — O  Miss  Herrick ! "  shaking  his 
head  at  Lenore,  and  smiling  reproachfully  with  his  indolent 
blue  eyes,  "  how  much  you  have  to  answer  for ! " 

They  get  in.  I  think  they  feel  rather  foolish,  sitting 
perched  up  on  high,  side  by  side.  There  is  something  ab- 
surdly nuptial  about  this  departure. 

"  Go  on !  what  are  you  stopping  for  ?  "  cries  Paul,  in 
the  worst  possible  French.  The  driver  says  "  Sapr — r — r," 
the  poor  beasts  stretch  to  their  work  ;  the  old  rope  traces 
strain ;  the  grin  of  expectation  vanishes  from  the  beggars' 
faces. 

"  Do  not  you  feel  as  if  we  ought  to  throw  old  shoes  af- 
ter them  ?  "  asks  Mr.  Scrope,  turning  languidly  to  me,  as 
the  bells  go  tinkle  tinkle  down  the  street.  I  smile. 
"  Would  a  sabot  do  as  well  ?  I  might  borrow  one."  The 
jingling  has  ceased.  They  are  fairly  gone. 

"  What  shall  we  do,  Miss  Herrick,  now  that  our  natural 
protectors  have  left  us  ? "  says  my  companion,  appealing 
piteously  to  me,  as  I  stand  on  the  broiled  and  broiling 
steps  under  the  umbrella  with  which  I  have  judiciously 
furnished  myself;  while  the  sun  catches  his  yellow  hair 
and  the  young,  soft  mustache  that  rather  directs  attention 
to  than  hides  his  handsome  mouth — the  feature  that  is  sel- 
domer  than  any  other  in  the  human  face  good.  "  What 
shall  we  do  ?  Shall  we  hire  a  couple  of  jackasses,  and  go 
out  riding  ?  " 

"  Rather  too  hot,  I  think." 

"  It  is  hot,  now  you  speak  of  it.     Phew  ! " 


WHAT  TEE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  117 


CHAPTER  XV. 

WHAT     THE     AUTHOR     SATS. 

CERTAINLY  it  is  sleepy  work,  driving  to  Huelgoat.  The 
day  is  one  of  those  that  remind  one  of  a  bad  painting  or  of 
the  landscape  on  a  papier-mache  tea-tray :  garish,  staring, 
inartistic.  The  sky  is  all  dead  blue,  and  the  trees  are  all 
dead  green.  Jingle,  jingle,  jingle,  tingle,  sound  the  bells ; 
jig,  jog,  with  their  noses  down  to  their  knees,  go  the  horses 
along  the  road — that  is  white  as  flour,  and  quite  as  powdery. 
Up  long-backed  hills,  down  long-backed  hills  ;  up,  down,  up, 
down ;  there  is  no  end  to  it.  The  driver  forgets  to  flick  his 
whip,  and  cry  "  Allez  !  allez  !  "  He  sits  swaying  to  and  fro 
in  the  sunshine,  fast  asleep.  He  looks  old  and  starveling,  as 
if  he  never  had  enough  to  eat  in  all  his  life.  Great  sweeps 
of  fern  and  gorse  spread  around,  only  broken  by  little  mis- 
erable patches  of  oats  and  Ue  noir ;  endless  reaches  of 
desolate  moorland — gray,  barren,  silent.  It  makes  one 
shiver,  even  in  this  broiling  noon,  to  think  how  the  north 
wind  must  rush  and  rage  over  these  eerie  wolds,  these  aw- 
ful landes,  on  a  January  night.  Jig  jog,  jig  jog.  The 
road  still  twists,  twists  always,  like  a  white  snake  writhing 
its  endless  folds  about  the  hills. 

"  I  wonder  how  they  are  getting  on  ? "  says  Lenore, 
after  a  twenty  minutes'  silence,  blinking  in  the  sun,  and 
trying  to  believe  that  she  is  enjoying  herself. 

"  They  !    Who  ?  "  asks  Paul,  with  an  absent  start. 

"  Jemima  and  Mr.  Scrope,  to  be  sure." 

"  I  do  not  know  about  your  sister,  I'm  sure,"  replies 
Paul,  leaning  back,  and  resting  his  head  against  the  stained 
and  discolored  leather  of  the  old  hood  ;  "  I  have  not  known 


118  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

her  long  enough  to  say ;  but,  as  I  knew  Scrope  when  he 
was  in  round  jackets,  and  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  him, 
off  and  on,  ever  since,  I  can  tell  you  to  a  nicety  what  he  is 
doing,  if  you  wish." 

"What?" 

"  He  is  lying  on  his  back,  in  the  coolest  place  he  can 
find,  and  drinking  claret-cup,  if  he  can  ask  for  it  in  French, 
which  I  doubt ;  but  if  not,  brandy  and  seltzer,  cider  and 
siphon,  any  thing — certainly  drinking  /  and  as  certainly 
making  love  to  some  one — the  landlady,  the  femme  de 
chambre,  your  sister,  perhaps,  if  she  does  not  snub  him  as 
resolutely  as  she  does  me." 

"  Poor  dear  Mima  ! "  says  Lenore,  laughing.  "  She 
will  be  sorely  puzzled  to  know  how  to  take  it  if  he  does." 

"If  it  is  not  your  sister,  it  is  somebody  else,"  says  Paul, 
tilting  his  hat  over  his  nose,  and  closing  his  eyes ;  "  he  is 
the  sort  of  fellow  that  one  could  not  trust  alone  in  the  room 
with  his  own  grandmother  for  five  minutes." 

"Indeed!" 

"  Generally,"  pursues  Paul,  in  a  sleepy  voice,  "  after  a 
two  days'  acquaintance,  he  proposes  to  every  woman  he 
sees ;  if  she  refuses  him,  he  asks  her  to  be  a  sister,  or 
mother,  or  aunt,  or  something  of  the  sort,  to  him :  if  she 
accepts  him,  he  is  off  by  the  next  train,  and  never  heard  of 
(by  her,  at  least)  again." 

"  He  must  remind  one  of  the  saying  that  the  best  way 
to  be  rid  of  a  troublesome  friend  is  to  lend  him  a  five-pound 
note." 

Their  talk  flags ;  the  dust  seems  to  have  got  into  it ; 
there  is  no  juice  in  it.  A  little  public-house  stands  by  the 
roadside,  a  bunch  of  box  over  the  door,  to  show  that  they 
sell  cider  there.  Inside,  a  woman  with  a  distaff,  an  old, 
old  woman,  all  grin  and  wrinkles,  every  wrinkle  filled  up 
with  dirt.  Immensely  tall  pigs,  with  finely-arched  backs, 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SATS.  119 

noses  like  greyhounds,  and  legs  like  antelopes,  throng 
about  the  door.  Now  and  again  a  primitive  cart  passes  ; 
the  shaggy,  unkempt  horses  prick  their  ears  and  rear  and 
plunge,  as  if  they  had  never  seen  a  civilized  being  Ipefore. 
With  hardly  less  astonishment  do  their  wild-eyed  drivers 
stare.  It  is  three  o'clock  and  past  by  the  time  that  Paul 
and  Lenore  reach  Huelgoat — Huelgoat,  sitting  in  the  sun- 
shine, at  the  very  end  of  the  world,  beside  her  still  gray 
tarn. 

"I  am  ravenous,"  says  Lenore,  gayly,  as  they  jingle  up 
the  dead  gray  street.  "  I  ate  no  breakfast,  did  you  ?  One 
cannot  eat  in  that  smell.  What  shall  we  have  ?  Cutlets, 
trout  ?  There  ought  to  be  trout  in  that  lake." 

"  Do  not  be  too  sanguine,"  answers  Paul,  shaking  his 
head  ;  "  it  is  uncharitable  to  judge  by  appearances,  but,  from 
a  bird's-eye  view  of  Huelgoat,  I  should  say  that  whitebait 
was  hardly  less  unlikely  than  trout  or  cutlets." 

No  one,  it  seems,  at  first  sight,  lives  at  the  Hotel  de 
Bretagne,  at  least  no  one  appears.  They  descend  from  the 
Ame'ricaine,  and  enter  a  flagged  passage,  with  two  doors 
exactly  opposite  each  other,  one  on  each  side.  That  on 
the  left  is  open,  and  gives  admittance  into  a  bright  and 
fireless  kitchen — innocent  of  the  very  faintest  odor  of  cook- 
ing. A  woman,..in  a  cap  that  is  a  cross  between  a  night- 
cap and  a  chimney-pot  of  the  hooded  kind,  comes  to  meet 
them,  with  an  immense  white  collar  and  a  clean  sour  face. 

"  What  did  monsieur  and  madame  wish  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  and  madame  wish  for  something  to  eat,  now, 
immediately,  d  T1  instant" 

"Monsieur  and  madame  can  have  some  bread  and  but- 
ter— some  cheese ;  there  is  unhappily  nothing  else  in  the 
house  au  moment" 

"  Nothing  else  in  the  house  !  "  repeats  Lenore,  with  an- 
gry volubility.  "  Why,  there  is  a  chicken  !  I  saw  it.  I 


120  "  GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART! » 

see  it  now,  there  !  "  pointing  with  her  finger  to  where  a 
long,  lean  cock  lies,  lank  and  plucked,  in  a  meat-safe  in  the 
passage. 

"  There  is,  as  madame  has  observed,  a  chicken,  a  superb 
chicken,  but  he  is  for  the  table  tfhote" 

"  But  we  are  dying,  perishing,  affames  !  "  cries  Lenore, 
eking  out  her  uncertain  talk  with  plentiful  gesticulation. 

"  Monsieur  and  madame  can  have  some  bread  and  but- 
ter— some  excellent  cheese — an  omelette." 

It  takes  ten  minutes  of  entreaties,  expostulations, 
prayers,  before  she  can  be  over-persuaded  to  the  sacrifice 
of  the  "superb"  chicken.  On  being  asked  how  soon  it 
will  be  dressed,  she  answers,  "  Half  an  hour ;  "  and,  being 
earnestly  besought  to  abridge  that  time,  repeats,  inexora- 
bly, "  line  demi-heure,  d  peu  pres." 

"  Let  us  go  into  the  satte  d  manger  and  shut  the  door," 
says  Lenore,  despondently.  "  It  will  drive  me  mad  to  see 
her  pottering  and  dawdling  about ;  and,  if  we  watched  her, 
she  would  only  potter  and  dawdle  the  more,  to  spite  us." 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  passes.  They  devour  huge  slices 
of  the  loaf,  and  make  a  clearance  of  three  miserable  little 
dry  sardines,  brought  in  on  a  plate.  They  look  out  of  win- 
dow at  the  silent  street,  call  it  Welsh,  Irish — every  ugly 
name  they  can  think  of.  Lenore  could  not  coquet  with 
Paul  now,  were  she  to  be  shot  for  it ;  neither  could  Paul 
say  any  thing  affectionate,  even  if  under  the  same  penalty. 
They  are  both  far  too  hungry. 

"  Look  if  it  has  gone  out  of  the  meat-safe  yet,"  says 
Lenore,  presently. 

"  If  it  has  not,"  replies  Paul,  gravely,  "  I  am  aware  that 
it  will  be  unmanly — but  I  shall  cry." 

He  opens  the  door,  and  peeps  out  into  the  passage. 

"It  is  there  still!" 

Despair  for  a  few  moments — then  rage ;  then  a  rush 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  121 

into  the  bright  kitchen  opposite,  bright  with  pewters  and 
coarsely-painted  pottery  plates  ;  bitter  reproaches,  quickly 
sunk  in  hopeless  silence. 

"  Madame  is  unreasonable  ;  madame  must  have  pa- 
tience ;  the  fire  is  not  yet  lit !  " 

They  return  to  the  salle  d  manger,  and  Lenore  sits 
down  6n  the  flagged  floor,  while  her  pretty  blue  gown 
makes  what  children  call  "  a  cheese  "  all  around  her.  Paul 
stands  over  her  in  gloomy  silence. 

"  How  well  I  can  understand  now  how  shipwrecked 
mariners  eat  one  another,"  she  says,  looking  up  at  him, 
pathetically. 

After  a  while  a  few  coals  of  charcoal  make  a  feeble 
glimmer  in  the  open  hearth.  The  enemy  with  the  chim- 
ney-pot cap  takes  the  fowl — his  sex  plainly  declared  by  the 
comb  which  still  adheres  to  his  head — and  runs  him  once 
or  twice  through  the  flame  to  singe  him ;  then,  taking  a 
few  warm  (not  hot)  coals,  places  them  in  a  sort  of  tin  box, 
and  lays  the  carcass  in  the  box  at  some  distance  from 
them. 

"  As  if  those  wretched,  half-dead  embers  could  ever 
cook  any  thing ! "  cries  Lenore,  indignantly.  They  sit 
stupidly  gazing  through  the  two  open  doors. 

"How  does  he  look?" 

"There  is  not  a  sign  of  cooking  upon  him,"  answers  Le 
Mesurier,  morosely.  "  He  is  as  white  as  when  he  went  in." 

"  He  will  be  done  only  on  one  side,"  says  Lenore,  half 
crying ;  "  is  not  she  going  to  turn  him  at  all  ?  " 

She  comes  in  presently,  and  turns  him  over  deliberate- 
ly ;  then  goes,  with  unfeeling  calmness,  about  her  other 
occupations. 

"  Well !  JVow  ?  "  (eyes  sparkling,  and  her  long  neck 
stretched  to  look  into  the  kitchen). 

"  There  is  a  slight  shade  of  brown  coming  over  him," 
6 


122  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!"' 

says  Paul,  with  a  smile.  Ten  minutes  more  and  he  ap- 
pears ;  his  legs  and  arms  are  all  straggling  wildly  about, 
his  skin  is  burnt  blacker  than  any  coal,  and  his  flesh  is  as 
pink  as  a  bit  of  catchfly  ;  but  he  is — oh,  how  delicious  ! 

By-and-by,  after  he  is  eaten,  and  nothing  but  memory 
is  left  of  his  charms,  they  stroll  out  together  down  the 
dumb  stone  street,  where  tiny  old-world  children,  in  tight, 
white  skull-caps,  not  showing  a  curl  of  their  baby  hair,  are 
playing  gravely  in  the  gutter,  with  their  long  petticoats 
flapping  about  their  heels  and  entirely  hiding  their  little  fat 
legs — where,  just  inside  the  doors,  women  in  the  home-cfo's- 
habille  of  filthy-white  chimney-pots  sit  at  their  spinning- 
wheels. 

Coming  to  Huelgoat  is  synonymous  with  putting  back 
the  clock  two  hundred  years.  Down  by  a  mill,  along  a 
narrow  path,  across  a  ferny  slope,  to  see  the  pierre  trem- 
blante.  Great  rounded  bowlders  lie  about  like  couchant 
elephants ;  dusky  fir- woods  clothe  the  hills,  that  rise  so  close 
and  stern,  and  on  their  barren  breasts  great  gray  granite 
masses  heave  huge  shoulders  out  of  the  heathy  ground. 
Below,  a  little  brawling  stream  slides  coyly  under  the 
great  rocks,  then  bubbles  coldly  out  again,  talking  to  itself 
all  the  way  and  to  the  small  marsh-flowers  that  grow  about 
its  low  brim;  a  little  mountain-beck,  like  a  flashing  smile 
on  the  valley's  lips,  like  a  silver  chain  about  the  hill's  cool 
feet. 

Paul  and  Lenore  have  been  climbing  the  hills,  have 
been  straying  among  the  piny  odors,  have  been  pushing 
and  fighting  their  way  through  the  thick  bilberry-bushes, 
and  now  they  are  hot  and  tired.  Lenore  is  kneeling  on  a 
flat  gray  stone,  and,  stooping  low  down,  lays  her  mouth  to 
the  clear  water  and  drinks. 

"  I  am  too  old  and  stiff  to  be  so  supple,"  says  Paul, 
with  a  smile  of  admiring  envy.  "  Make  me  a  cup  of  your 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SATS.  123 

hands ;  I  have  no  letter  in  my  pocket  to  make  a  leaky 
cornucopia  of." 

She  complies,  gravely.  Joining  her  white  hands  to- 
gether, she  dips  them  into  the  water,  and  then  holds  them 
up  for  him  to  drink.  He  has  to  drink  very  fast,  as  the 
water  runs  out  nearly  as  quick  as  it  came  in.  Then  she 
stoops  again,  and  bathes  her  head  in  the  stream.  The 
water  rolls  in  diamond  beads  from  her  hair,  and  on  to  her 
turquoise-blue  gown,  as  she  kneels  on  the  broad  gray 
stone  ;  long-legged  flies  are  walking  about  on  the  stream  ; 
little  blue  butterflies  hover  round,  like  flying  flowers  that 
have  grown  tired  of  their  stalks,  and  are  gone  visiting  their 
Jiinsfolk.  Paul  is  stretched  on  the  short,  fine  grass  on  the 
other  side  of  the  brook,  but  yet  not  a  span  off.  His  elbows 
rest  on  the  ground,  and  his  hands  are  buried  in  his  bronze 
beard.  It  is  all  so  pretty,  so  lorn,  so  silent,  as  if,  long 
ago,  God  had  made  this  fair  spot,  and  then  forgotten  it. 

"  Mr.  Le  Mesurier,"  says  Lenore,  suddenly,  "  do  you 
think  it  was  wrong  of  me  to  come  with  you  here  to-day  ? 
I  would  not  ask  any  other  man,  because  I  know  I  should 
only  get  some  silly,  civil  speech ;  but  I  know  that  you  will 
tell  me  the  truth,  however  disagreeable — perhaps  "  (laugh- 
ing) "  with  all  the  more  alacrity,  the  more  unflattering  it 
may  be." 

Paul  lifts  his  head,  and  stares  at  her  in  some  surprise 
at  the  demand  made  upon  his  veracity. 

"  Since  when  has  your  conscience  grown  so  tender ! " 
he  asks,  evasively.  "  Who  has  been  putting  such  an  idea 
into  your  head? — for  I  am  sure  it  never  grew  there  of  it- 
self." 

"  Jemima,"  she  answers,  dabbling  her  hand  and  her 
pocket-handkerchief  in  the  bright  water,  with  more  than  a 
child's  delight.  "When  you  came  in  this  morning,  she 
was  in  the  middle  of  telling  me  how  improper  it  was.  I 


124  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

do  not  mind  her  •  she  is  an  old  maid — or,  at  least,  in  her, 
coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before.  But  I  want  you 
to  tell  me.  Is  it  wrong,  incorrect — hazard 6,  as  the  French 
say  ?  " 

"  Not  one  of  the  three,  in  the  very  least,"  he  answers, 
warmly.  "  The  worst  that  any  one  can  say  of  it  is,  that  it 
is  a  little,  a  very  little,  unconventional." 

"  The  woman  with  the  eyes  like  a  shot  partridge  would 
not  have  done  it,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Probably  not."  Then,  seeing  her  look  mortified : 
"  If  the  woman  with  the  eyes  like  a  shot  partridge  has  a 
fault,  it  is  being  in  the  slightest  degree  in  too  great  bond- 
age to  Mrs.  Grundy.  She  would  hardly  dare  to  go  along 
the  road  to  heaven,  unless  she  knew  that  many  very  re- 
spectable people  had  gone  there  before  her." 

Silence,  save  for  the  low,  small  noise  that  the  glossy 
bees  make  in  visiting  from  heather-bloom  to  heather-bloom. 
The  high  sun  is  already  sloping  westward ;  in  two  or  three 
hours  one  will  be  able  to  look  him  in  the  face. 

"  If  I  had  but  Joshua's  gift !  "  says  Paul,  sighing,  as  he 
lies  gazing  up  at  the  flawless  sapphire  above  him.  "  If  I 
could  but  say,  with  any  hope  of  being  obeyed,  c  Sun,  stand 
thou  still ! ' " 

"  Why  should  you  say  so  ?  "  asks  Lenore,  opening  her 
eyes,  as  she  busily  wrings  out  her  pocket-handkerchief,  and 
lays  it  on  the  grass  to  dry.  "  Why  should  you  wish  to 
stop  him  ?  He  will  last  quite  long  enough  to  light  us 
home,  and  that  is  all  we  want  him  for  to-day." 

"  To-day  !  Yes,"  answers  Le  Mesurier,  sighing  again  ; 
"  but,  when  one  thinks  that,  in  all  human  probability,  he 
will  shine  upon  us  two  together  at  Huelgoat  never 
again ! " 

"  He  will  shine  upon  us  two  together  at  Morlaix,"  says 
Lenore,  playfully,  "  which  will  be  much  the  same,  will  not 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  125 

it  ?     Probably  he  will  not   only  shine  upon  us,  but  will 
freckle  us  a  good  deal." 

"  He  will  not  shine  upon  us  together  anywhere  long," 
says  Paul,  rather  crossly,  as  if  vexed  by  her  gayety. 
"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  I  mean  that  I  am  going  back  to  England  the  day 
after  to-morrow  ;  that  is  all." 

"  Going !  "  she  repeats,  while  a  cowardly,  treacherous 
white  spreads  over  cheeks  and  lips ;  and  her  wet  hands 
drop  forgotten  into  her  lap. 

"  Yes ;  I  am  going,"  answers  Paul,  his  vain  man's 
heart  all  astir  at  sight  of  her  change  of  countenance,  and 
his  face  gaining  all  the  color  hers  has  lost.  "  My  people, 
who  have  never  hitherto  shown  much  propensity  for  my 
society,  have  suddenly  found  that  I  am  indispensable  to 
them." 

She  turns  her  head  aside,  and  looks  away  toward  the 
piny  hills. 

"  So  you  are  going  away  ?  "  she  says,  almost  under  her 
breath.  "  Well "  (forcing  a  smile),  "  considering  how  in- 
auspiciously  our  acquaintance  began,  we  have  got  on  very 
well  together,  have  not  we  ?  " 

"  Very  well,"  answers  Paul,  emphatically. 

"  We  have  managed  to  agree  pretty  well,  although  I 
am  not  your  style  "  (with  a  perceptible  accent  on  the  last 
three  words). 

"  JVbt  my  style  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asks,  red- 
dening consciously. 

"  Although  you  did  think  it  such  a  hardship  coming  on 
that  tea-picnic  with  us  down  the  Ranee,  although  you  did 
look  at  your  watch  so  often  and  sigh  so  heavily !  I  thought 
once  or  twice "  (laughing  a  little)  "  that  you  would  have 
blown  out  Frederick's  new-lit  fire." 

"Is  it  possible?"  cries  Paul,  tragically;    not  in  the 


126  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

least  struck  by  the  ridiculousness  of  the  offence  imputed  to 
Mm,  but  rather  by  the  state  of  mind  in  himself  that  such 
an  offence  evidenced. 

Lenore  bends  her  eyes  on  the  ground ;  her  fingers,  ig- 
norant of  what  they  are  doing,  pluck  at  the  fine  blade's  of 
grass,  and  dwarf  yellow  flowers  about  her ;  her  figure  has 
a  drooped  air  of  languor. 

"  There  was  a  pretty  redness  in  her  lip 
A  little  riper  and  more  lusty  red 

Than  that  mixed  in  her  cheek  ;  'twas  just  the  difference 
Betwixt  the  constant  red  and  mingled  damask." 

"  Yes,  we  have  got  on  very  well,"  she  says,  in  a  tone 
that  is  half  a  whisper  and  half  a  sigh. 

Paul  has  risen  to  his  feet,  and  now  steps  across  the  nar- 
row barrier  of  the  brook  that  parts  them,  and  stands  over 
her,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  a  strong  emotion 
agitating  his  plain,  burnt  face. 

"Lenore,"  he  says,  impetuously,  "do  not  you  think 
that  we  should  get  on  very  well  together  always  ?  " 

If  only  premeditated  proposals  came  to  pass,  every  par- 
ish-register would  be  the  poorer  by  two-thirds  of  its  mar- 
riages. When  he  set  off  this  morning  from  Morlaix,  Paul 
had  as  much  idea  of  offering  himself  to  Jemima  as  to  Le- 
nore ;  only  he  would  not  believe  it  now  if  you  were  to  tell 
him  so.  At  his  words,  she  springs  to  her  feet,  and  a  slight 
quiver  passes  over  her  features. 

"  I  think,"  she  says,  trying  to  laugh,  "  that  we  should 
quarrel  a  good  deal." 

"  Lenore,"  says  Paul,  earnestly,  "  I  do  not  know  why  I 
am  asking  you.  You  are  not  in  the  least  the  sort  of  wo- 
man that  I  ever  pictured  to  myself  as  my  wife,  and  I  have 
no  earthly  business  to  ask  any  woman.  My  face  "  (with  a 
rather  grim  laugh)  "  is  my  fortune,  and  you  see  what  a 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  127 

handsome  one  that  is ;  and  yet — and  yet — tell  me,  Lenore, 
am  I  worth  living1  in  a  garret  on  cold  mutton  with  ?  " 

She  gives  him  no  speech  in  answer ;  only  she  stretches 
out  her  arms,  and  her  eyes  flash  softly  through  her  happy 
tears.  He  must  read  his  answer  there. 

The  beck  tinkles  at  their  feet;  the  butterflies  hover 
about  their  heads ;  the  sun  gives  them  his  broad,  warm 
smile ;  and  three  little  Breton  girls,  going  a-bilberrying, 
with  tin  mugs  in  their  hands,  stand  on  a  neighboring  slope, 
aghast  at  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  British.  She  is 
lying  in  his  arms,  and  he  is  kissing  the  beautiful  lips  that 
have  kissed  none  but  him,  that  (as  he  confidently  thinks) 
will  kiss  none  but  him  ever  again. 

"  Are  you  sure,"  asks  Lenore,  presently,  lifting  her  ruf- 
fled head  from  his  breast,  and  smiling  through  her  tears, 
"  are  you  sure  that  you  are  asking  me  for  yourself  this 
time?" 

"  Quite  sure." 

"  That  it  is  not  for  Frederick  ?  " 

"No." 

"Nor  for  Mr.  Scrope?" 

"  No." 

"  Are  you  quite,  quite  sure  that  you  like  me  ?  "  she  asks, 
drawing  a  little  away  from  him,  and  reading  earnestly  his 
gray  eyes,  as  if  with  more  confidence  in  their  truth  than  in 
that  of  his  mouth. 

"I  am  not  at  all  sure  of  it,"  he  answers,  laughing. 
"  You  are  not  the  sort  of  person  that  any  one  could  Wee, 
but  I  am  very  sure  that  I  love  you,  if  that  will  do  as 
well." 

"Better  than  the  shot-partridge  woman?"  she  asks, 
smiling,  half  ashamed  of  her  question,  and  yet  with  solici- 
tude. 

"  Immeasurably  better ! "  answers  he,  devoutly. 


128  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

At  that  she  seems  satisfied,  but  in  a  very  little  while 
her  restless  doubts  return. 

"  Paul,"  she  says,  withdrawing  herself  from  his  arms, 
"you  have  not  yet  asked  me  whether  I  like  you." 

"  I  suppose,"  he  answers,  gayly ;  "  that  I  thought  ac- 
tions spoke  louder  than  words." 

"You  did  not  think-,,  it $worth  while  asking  me,"  she 
says,  reddening  painfully,  "  because  you  were  so  sure  of 
what  the  answer  would  be  ;  you  knew  I  was  fond  of  you ; 
you  have  known  it  all  along !  Oh,  why  did  not  I  hide  it 
better  ?  "  clasping  her  hands  together,  and  flinging  herself 
down,  disconsolately,  on  the  grass. 

"  I  knew  nothing  of  the  kind,"  answers  Paul,  pulling 
his  mustache,  and  looking  very  much  embarrassed ;  "  if,  in- 
deed, you  had  been  any  other  woman,  I  might  have  been 
conceited  enough  to  fancy  from  your  manner  that  you  did 
not  dislike  me,  but,  as  you  are  not  in  the  least  like  any  wo- 
man I  ever  saw  in  my  life,  I  could  not  possibly  argue  from 
their  manners  and  customs  to  yours." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  she  answers,  shaking  her  head, 
"  trying  to  put  me  in  good-humor  with  myself,  but  you 
cannot :  I  have  been  a  lame  hare — a  lame  hare  !  " 

"  Do  not  call  my  wife  ugly  names  !  "  cries  Paul,  play- 
fully, yet  distressed,  sitting  down  beside  her ;  "  it  is  very 
bad  manners." 

"  If  you  had  been  less  sure  of  me,  you  would  have 
valued  me  a  hundred  times  more,"  says  the  girl,  with 
bitter  mortification,  fixing  her  solemn  tragic  eyes  on  his 
face. 

"  Do  not  get  into  the  habit  of  talking  such  nonsense  !  " 
retorts  he,  brusquely ;  all  the  more  brusquely  perhaps  from 
a  latent  consciousness  that  there  is  a  grain  of  truth  in  her 
self-accusation.  "  How  many  times  must  I  tell  you  that  I 
was  not  sure  of  you ;  that  I  did  not  know  but  that  you 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  129 

might  give  me  my  coup  de  grdce  with  as  little  remorse  as 
you  did  Mr.  West  ?  " 

How  Mr.  Le  Mesurier  reconciles  this  astounding  fib  to 
his  conscience,  I  must  leave  the  reader  to  determine. 

Another  little  silence ;  the  bilberry  children  have  dis- 
appeared in  the  wood;  the  long-legged  flies  are  still 
promenading  on  the  stream;  the  sleepy  mellowness  of 
afternoon  is  upon  every  thing. 

"  Paul,"  says  Lenore,  again  presently,  not  in  the  least 
convinced  by  her  lover's  perjuries,  and  lifting  a  charming, 
quivering  face  to  his — "  can  you  swear  to  me  that  you  did 
not  ask  me  because  I  looked  grieved  at  the  news  of  your 
going  ?  Can  you  swear  to  me  that  you  like  me  always  ? 
Not  only  now,  here,  but  always,  all  day  and  all  night — 
even  when  you  are  away  from  me." 

"  Even  when  I  am  away  from  you,  strange  to  say,"  he 
replies,  heartily,  drawing  her  fondly  toward  him. 

"  I  know,"  she  continues,  not  yielding  to  his  caresses, 
but  rather  resisting  them,  "  that  while  I  am  with  you,  I 
please  you,  as  any  man  is  pleased  with  the  company  of  a 
young,  good-looking  woman,  who  has  evident  delight  in  his 
society ;  but  when  you  are  away  from  me — alone  in  your 
own  room  at  night,  quietly  thinking  over  things — do  you 
like  me  then  ?  do  you  approve  of  me  then  f  " 

He  looks  a  little  pained  at  first  by  this  puzzling  cate- 
chism ;  then  putting  an  arm  of  fond  and  resolute  ownership 
round  her,  answers  gravely,  but  without  hesitation : 

"  Lenore,  since  you  are  bent  on  tormenting  yourself 
and  me  with  these  ridiculous  doubts  and  questionings,  I 
will  tell  you  the  very  truth  :  I  would  not  have  loved  you 
if  I  could  have  helped  it ;  for  the  last  three  weeks  I  have 
been  trying  honestly  to  dislike  you.  I  have  told  myself 
over  and  over  again — yes,  I  have  even  told  West  too,  that 
I  did  not  admire  you  ;  I  have  pretended  to  hold  you  cheap ; 


130  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

I  have  said  that  you  were  fast — that  I  could  see  you  had  a 
temper — that  you  were  bad  form — that  you  were  not  even 
pretty — God  forgive  me  for  such  a  lie ! "  breaking  off  sud- 
denly, to  smooth  her  ruffled  hair. 

"  Well ;  go  on,"  she  says,  curtly,  impatient  of  the  inter- 
ruption, while  her  cheeks  wear  as  deep  a  dye  as  the  strewn 
petals  of  a  red  rose. 

"  I  felt— well,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  feel  now  "  (laughing), 
"  that  you  were  not  a  woman  that  a  man  would  have  an 
easy  time  with.  Lenore,  I  shall  be  frantically  jealous  of 
you ;  I  shall  very  often  fly  into  a  rage  with  you — " 

"  There,"  cries  Lenore  with  spirit,  "  we  shall  be 
quits ;  for  I  never  stayed  in  the  house  with  any  one  for  a 
fortnight  in  my  life,  without  quarrelling  d  entrance  with 
them." 

"  You  are,"  continues  Paul,  still  smiling,  "  as  unlike  as 
it  is  possible  to  be  to  the  patient  Grizzel,  the  amiable  fond 
drudge,  that  I  have  always  imagined  trudging  humbly 
through  life  beside  me ;  I  cannot  fancy  you  trudging 
humbly  beside  any  one ;  you  would  be  more  likely  to  stalk 
on  in  front  of  them,  with  your  head  up — but  yet — but  yet 
Lenore — look  me  in  the  face  for  as  long  as  you  please — the 
longer  the  better — I  defy  even  you  to  find  any  falsehood 
there — I  would  not  change  you  now  for  all  the  Grizzels  in 
Christendom." 

"  Would  not  you  ?  "  she  says,  softly  laying  her  head 
caressingly  down  on  his  shoulder,  "  I  am  glad  !  " 

"  Poor  darling ! "  he  says,  with  a  passionate  pang  of 
self-reproach,  "  I  wish  I  was  better  worth  being  glad  of." 

Neither  speaks  for  a  few  moments,  and  both  are  happy. 
Lenore,  womanlike,  is  the  first  to  break  silence. 

"  Paul,"  she  says,  lifting  her  head  from  its  new  resting- 
place,  laying  a  hand  with  innocent  familiarity  upon  each 
of  his  shoulders,  and  scanning  closely  his  face,  which  looks 


WHAT  TEE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  131 

even  less  handsome  under  this  minute  inspection  than  when 
viewed  from  the  respectful  distance  at  which  his  acquaint- 
ance are  wont  to  regard  it,  "  do  you  know  that  I  am  not 
at  all  nice  ?  Not  at  all ;  quite  the  contrary.  I  would  not 
have  told  you,  only  that  I  am  sure  that  you  would  very 
soon  have  found  it  out  for  yourself :  hitherto,  I  have  not 
cared  whether  I  was  or  no;  but  I  am  not  a  nice  per- 
son, certainly.  As  yet  you  have  seen  only  the  best  of 
me." 

"The  best  of  you!"  cries  Le  Mesurier,  raising  his 
brows  in  feigned  dismay,  "  if  what  I  have  seen  be  the  best 
of  you,  what  must  the  worst  be  ?  " 

She  smiles.  "  You  remind  me  of  the  man,  who,  when 
his  lady-love  refused  him,  saying  that  she  wondered  how 
he  could  have  the  presumption  to  propose  to  her,  as  she 
had  never  shown  him  any  thing  but  her  coldest  manner, 
answered  that  if  such  were  her  coldest  manners,  he  shud- 
dered to  think  what  her  warmest  must  be."  The  laugh 
becomes  a  duet.  "  Do  not  you  remember,"  continues  Le- 
nore,  gravely,  "what  Miss  Richland  says  in  Goldsmith's 
4 Good-natured  Man ? '  'Our  sex  are  like  poor  tradesmen 
that  put  all  their  best  goods  to  be  seen  in  the  windows.' 
All  my  best  goods  are -in  my  windows." 

"  Why  do  not  you  leave  me  to  make  these  discoveries 
for  myself  ?  "  asks  Paul,  half-vexed,  half-play  fully.  "  Why 
do  you  tell  me  ?  it  is  like  telling  me  the  end  of  a  novel." 

"  Do  not  you  see,"  she  says,  eagerly,  "  that  I  want  you 
to  know  the  worst  of  me  at  once  ?  " 

"  And  about  how  bad  is  the  worst  ? "  asks  Paul,  jest- 
ingly, as  he  takes  her  two  hands,  and  puts  them  about  his 
own  neck,  while  he  gazes  at  his  leisure  into  the  shady 
depths  of  her  deep-fringed  eyes,  "is  it  that  you  have  a 
will  of  your  own? — I  know  that  already — I  knew  it  from 
the  day  when  you  first  burst  upon  my  dazzled  sight  in 


132  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

Stephanie's  cap  and  petticoat — is  it  that  you  snub  your 
sister  ?  I  know  that  too — is  it — " 

"  Oh,  do  not  joke,"  she  says,  earnestly,  "it  is  no  joking 
matter,  but  I  will  try  to  be  nicer  for  the  future;  I  will, 
indeed,  for  your  sake !  I  will  begin  directly — to-morrow." 

"  Why  not  to-day  ?  "  (smiling). 

"  I  shall  have  no  temptation  to  resist  to-day,"  she  an- 
swers, simply.  "  To-day  I  am  too  happy  to  be  wicked." 

Again  he  presses  her  to  his  heart,  with  a  feeling  of 
remorse,  as  one  that  has  been  given  a  good  gift,  and  prizes 
it  not  according  to  its  worth. 

"  O  poor  child ! "  he  cries,  with  emotion,  "  why  are,you 
happy  ?  Is  it  because  you  have  made  the  worst  and  most 
losing  bargain  ever  woman  made  since  first  this  cheating 
world  began  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  so  lucky  all  my  life,"  she  says,  with  a 
pensive  smile.  "  From  a  little  child,  I  have  always  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  what  I  wanted !  You  are  the  first  per- 
son whose  love  I  ever  wished  for,  and — is  it  forward  of  me 
to  tell  you  so  ? — I  wished  for  it  from  almost  the  first  day  I 
saw  you,  rude  and  surly  as  you  were  to  me — and  now,  so 
you  tell  me,  do  not  you  ?  Against  your  will  I  have  got 
even  that." 

"  There  is  not  much  doubt  of  it,"  answers  -Paul,  with 
more  emphasis  than  eloquence.  "  Oh,  perverse,  pretty 
darling!  What  blessed  contrariety  ever  induced  you  to 
take  a  fancy  to  such  an  u^ly,  ill-conditioned  devil  as  I  ? 
Most  women  hate  the  sight  of  me." 

"And  you  return  the  compliment  with  interest,"  re- 
joins Lenore,  smiling,  "  so  Frederick  told  us.  That  was 
what  first  made  me  think  of  you.  O  Paul ! "  (her  gravity 
returning,  and  the  unbidden  tears  rising  to  her  eyes),  "was 
there  ever  an  instance  of  any  one  being  always  happy  ?  or 
shall  I  have  to  pay  for  my  good  luck  by-and-by  ?  " 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  133 

"  Do  not  talk  like  that,"  says  the  young  man,  hastily, 
with  a  pained  look ;  "  it  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  had  been 
misleading  you,  and  yet  God  knows  I  have  not  done  so 
consciously.  O  love  ! "  (with  an  accent  of  bitterness)  "  you 
will  find  soon  enough  that  there  is  nothing  alarmingly  for- 
tunate in  the  lot  you  have  drawn." 

"If  you  think,"  she  answers,  with  a  spirited  smile, 
"  that  I  am  deceiving  myself  in  my  estimate  of  you,  you 
are  mistaken ;  I  am  not  elevating  your  excellences  at  the 
expense  of  my  own;  if  I  am  not  remarkably  amiable, 
neither  I  am  sure  are  you ;  we  shall  probably  lead  a  cat- 
and-dog  life,  to  the  edification  of  all  our  neighbors — but 
yet,  try  as  you  may  to  persuade  me  to  the  contrary,  it  still 
seems — it  will  always  seem  to  me — good  luck  to  belong  to 
you.  Come,  let  us  go ! " 

As  she  speaks,  she  rises,  and  stands  beside  the  little 
quarrelsome  stream,  tall,  and  straight,  and  beautiful,  with 
a  grave,  fond  smile  on  her  shut  lips,  and  a  bulrush  wand  in 
her  small  white  hand ;  his  own,  his  very  own,  and  not  an- 
other man's. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

WHAT     JEMIMA     SAYS. 

IT  is  half-past  eight,  but  still  broad  daylight.  Paul  and 
Lenore  have  not  yet  returned.  I  wish  they  would.  "  Good- 
night," say  I,  closing  the  old  spinet  at  which  I  have  been 
warbling  in  the  little  salon  that  overhangs  the  street. 

"  Are  you  going  to  bed  ?  "  asks  Mr.  Scrope,  dissuasive- 
ly ;  "  do  not."  He  is  lying  on  three  chairs,  meditating, 
like  Mr.  Pickwick,  with  his  eyes  closed. 


134:  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

"  I  have  a  headache,"  I  answer,  rather  crossly ;  "  can  no 
one  keep  awake  in  my  society  ?  "  is  my  reflection. 

"  Please  sing  '  Good-night,  good-night,  Beloved,'  before 
you  go,"  says  he,  lifting  his  blue  eyes  with  lazy  entreaty  to 
my  face,  "  efo." 

I  laugh. 

"  You  are  like  the  man  in  '  Sam  Slick,'  who  said  to  the 
girl,  c  Thing  me  that  little  thong  J  when  she  had  already 
sung  it  twice.  I  sang  *  Good-night,  good-night,  Beloved/ 
ten  minutes  ago." 

He  first  looks  confused,  and  then  laughs  with  boyish 
heartiness. 

"  Did  you  ?  You  see  it  was  a  better  lullaby  than  you 
had  any  idea  of." 

"  Good-night,"  say  I  tendering  my  hand  for  the  second 
time. 

"  Do  not  go,"  he  says  again,  drawing  himself  languidly 
up  ;  "  it  is  only  half-past  eight." 

"  Is  it  not  as  well  to  sleep  comfortably  and  peacefully 
in  bed  as  uncomfortably  and  spasmodically  on  three  hard- 
bottomed  chairs  ?  " 

"  I  think  not "  (rising  and  yawning).  "  In  order  to  get 
to  bed  we  have  the  trouble  of  going  up-stairs.  Now,  if 
one  had  some  one  to  carry  one  up  it  would  be  differ- 
ent." 

"  I  wish  they  would  come  back,"  say  I,  uneasily  step- 
ping out  into  the  little  balcony.  "It  is  a  great  shame  of 
Mr.  Le  Mesurier  keeping  Lenore  out  so  late." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  it  is  not  she  that  is  keeping 
him  out  ?  " 

I  drew  myself  up  with  dignity. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"I  meant  no  offence,"  he  answers,  good-humoredly ; 
"  only,  from  the  very  little  I  know  of  your  sister,  I  should 


WE  AT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  135 

say  that  she  was  not  the  sort  of  person  to  let  any  one  make 
her  come  in  or  go  out  against  her  own  will." 

"  You  do  not  like  Lenore,"  say  I,  leaning  my  arms  on 
the  rails  and  gazing  down  the  street. 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,"  he  answers,  confidentially, 
"  she  frightens  me  out  of  my  wits  !  You  do  not  in  the 
least ;  but,  when  I  see  her  come  into  the  room,  my  first  im- 
pulse is  to  take  to  my  heels  and  hide  in  dens  and  caves." 

"  Is  it  ?  "  say  I,  surprised.     «  Why  ?  " 

" Her  eyes  go  through  one  like  gimlets"  he  says,  his 
handsome  young  cheeks  flushing ;  "  and  she  has  a  way  of 
looking  over,  and  under,  and  through,  and  on  each  side  of 
one,  without  affecting  to  perceive  one." 

"  Has  she,"  I  say,  wonderingly ;  "  I  never  observed  it." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  only  I  who  am  invisible  to  the  naked 
eye,"  rejoins  he,  with  an  indolent  smile.  "  She  perceives 
Paul,  no  doubt ;  we  can  all  see  that,  of  course." 

"  There  is  no  accounting  for  taste,"  I  answer,  tritely ; 
"  Bottom  and  Titania  are  of  very  frequent  occurrence  now- 
adays." 

"  I  did  not  mean  that  exactly,"  says  Mr.  Scrope,  too 
loyal  to  his  friend  to  relish  the  ingenious  comparison  that 
I  have  instituted  between  him  and  the  ass-headed  weaver 
of  Athens.  "  I  am  not  in  the  least  surprised  at  Miss  Le- 
nore's  preferring  Paul  to  me,  for  he  is  the  very  best  fellow 
in  the  world,  and  consequently  I  can  only  be  the  second 
best." 

"  Very  best !  "  cry  I,  carping  at  such  unlimited  praise 
bestowed  upon  a  person  whose  merits  I  have  as  yet  been 
unable  to  discover.  "  How  very  best  f  Most  religious,  do 
you  mean?" 

He  looks  down. 

"  No,  not  that,  I  suppose." 

"  Steadiest  ?  " 


136  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

He  smiles  significantly. 

"  Hardly.  Poor  old  Paul !  they  used  to  call  him  Lin- 
coln and  Bennett  in  his  old  regiment,  because  he  was  as 
mad  as  two  hatters." 

"Most  amiable?" 

"  Well,  no,  I  think  not.  Paul  is  a  queer-tempered  fel- 
low ;  he  can  be  very  nasty  when  he  likes." 

"  In  what,  then,"  inquire  I,  astonished,  "  may  I  ask, 
does  his  supereminent  merits  consist  ?  " 

"  It  knocks  one  up  so  much  this  hot  weather  explaining 
things,"  answers  he,  stretching.  "  All  the  same,  he  is  the 
very  best  fellow  in  the  world." 

"  That  is  the  Italian  mode  of  argument,"  say  I,  smiling ; 
"  which  consists  in  repeating  the  disputed  assertion  over, 
a  certain  number  of  times,  in  exactly  the  same  words  as  at 
first." 

With  this  parting  thrust,  I  take  my  leave. 

Early  as  is  the  hour,  many  of  the  commercial  travellers 
have  already  retired  to  bed  ;  at  least  many  boots  stand  out- 
side many  doors.  As  I  walk  slowly  up  the  stairs,  the  prob- 
lem that  engages  my  mind  is  :  "  Wherein  can  Mr.  Le  Mesu- 
rier's  charm  lie?  Ugly,  irreligious,  dissipated,  ill-tem- 
pered!" I  fall  asleep  without  having  solved  it.  I  am 
awoke,  or  half-awoke,  by  a  sensation  of  being  violently 
called  upon  and  shaken  by  some  one.  I  sit  up  and  blink  : 
"  I  have  sung  it  twice  already,"  I  say,  irrelevantly,  imagin- 
ing that  Mr.  Scrope  is  still  pressing  me  to  sing  "  Good- 
night, good-night,  Beloved,"  and  is  shaking  me  to  enforce 
compliance. 

"  Sing  what  ?  Who  wants  you  to  sing  ?  Wake  up,  you 
foolish  old  person ! "  cries  my  sister's  laughing  voice.  I 
obey.  Broad  awake,  I  look  round.  The  moonlight  is  ly- 
ing in  silver  bars  on  the  floor,  having  shone  through  the 
Venetian  blind.  A  candle  glares  uncomfortably  into  my 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  137 

eyes,  and  on  my  bed  Lenore  is  sitting,  still  dressed  in  her 
hat  and  jacket,  her  clothes  wet  with  the  night-dews,  and 
the  steady  shining  of  a  great  new  happiness  in  her  eyes. 
"  Jemima,"  she  says,  with  an  excited  smile,  snatching  my 
hand,  "  are  you  awake  ?  Wide  ?  Can  you  understand 
things  ?  " 

u  It  is  not  your  fault  if  I  cannot,"  I  answer,  drowsily, 
rubbing  my  eyes. 

"  Stop  blinking ! "  she  cries,  impatiently,  "  and  look  at 
me.  Do  you  know  that  you  are  looking  at  the  very  hap- 
piest woman  in  all  France  ?  " 

"  And  you  at  the  sleepiest,"  reply  I,  lying  down  again. 

"  Do  not  go  to  sleep,"  she  says,  laying  her  sweet,  fresh 
face,  cool  with  the  kisses  of  the  night-wind,  beside  mine 
on  the  pillow.  "  You  do  not  know  what  interesting  things 
I  have  to  tell  you.  Do  you  know  "  (in  a  confidential,  em- 
phatic whisper),  "  I  dare  say  you  will  hardly  believe  it  at 
first — I  can  hardly  believe  it  myself  yet — but  Paul  likes — 
me — very — much  !  " 

"  Much  ?  "  say  I,  crossly,  half  at  my  interrupted  slum- 
bers, half  at  the  unwelcome  though  expected  news ;  "  there 
is  nothing  very  wonderful  in  that ;  for  the  last  three  weeks 
you  have  been  doing  your  very  best  to  make  him  like  you, 
and  your  efforts  in  that  line  are  not  generally  unblessed 
with  success." 

Her  countenance  falls ;  her  tone  of  gay  triumph  changes. 

"  Doing  my  very  best ! "  she  repeats,  slowly.  "  Ah, 
that  was  what  I  was  afraid  of !  So  I  have — so  I  have." 

"  Your  friend  Paul  had  no  need  to  see  farther  through  a 
stone-wall  than  other  people,  in  order  to  perceive  that  it 
was  a  case  of  '  Oh,  whistle  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my  lad ! ' r 
pursue  I,  with  clumsy  badinage. 

She  covers  her  face  with  her  hands ;  then,  lifting  it, 
looks  with  wistful  anxiety  at  me. 


138  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  Did  I  do  any  thing  to  make  a  person  despise  me,  do 
you  think  ?  "  she  asks,  in  a  low  voice.  "  Was  I  unlady- 
like ?  Did  I  run  after  him  ?  " 

"  Run  after  him  !  Pooh,  nonsense  !  "  reply  I,  carelessly^ 
then,  after  a  pause,  meditatively :  "  Paul,  Paul !  it  is  an 
ugly,  abrupt  little  name.  Paul  Pry  !  Paul  Ferroll,  who 
killed  his  wife  !  Are  there  any  more  Pauls  ?  You  really 
must  have  him  rechristened,  Lenore." 

"  Paul  and  Virginia,"  says  Lenore,  assisting  my  mem- 
ory, having  recovered  her  smiles ;  "  I  do  not  think  I  am 
much  like  Virginia." 

"  And  do  you  mean  seriously  to  tell  me,"  continue  I,  be- 
coming grave,  "  that  it  was  with  the  deliberate  intention 
of  asking  you  to  share  his  exceedingly  indifferent  fortunes, 
that  he  took  you  out  on  this  expedition  to-day,  in  that 
little,  dusty,  tumbled-down  pony-gig,  in  the  roasting 
sun?" 

"  I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  deliberate  intention  or 
accident,"  replies  my  sister,  looking  down,  and  plucking  at 
the  clothes.  "  I  rather  think  it  was  accident ;  but  which- 
ever it  was,  he  did  ask  me." 

"  And  you  said  '  Yes,'  and  '  Thank  you  kindly,'  I  sup- 
pose ?  "  cry  I,  reddening  with  indignation. 

She  nods  assent :  "  If  I  did  not  say  it,  I  felt  it." 

A  little  silence :  "  You  will  at  least  have  an  excellent 
foil,  on  all  occasions,  ready  to  your  hand,"  I  say,  spite- 
fully, in  bitter  vexation  that  Damocles's  sword  has  fallen — 
that  the  catastrophe  which  I  have  been  vaguely  dreading 
for  the  last  three  weeks  has  happened. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  (with  an  absent  look).  "  Oh  ! " 
(with  a  smile),  "  I  see  ;  you  think  him  so  ugly." 

"  Extremely  ! "  reply  I,  dryly. 

"  So  do  I,"  rejoins  she,  calmly ;  "  I  like  ugliness." 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SATS.  139 

"  '  Come,  sit  thee  down  upon  this  flowery  bed, 
While  I  thy  amiable  cheeks  do  coy, 
And  stick  musk-roses  in  thy  sleek,  smooth  head, 
And  kiss  thy  fair  large  ears,  my  gentle  joy,'  " 

say  I,  maliciously,  quoting  Titania's  apostrophe  to  Bottom. 

Lenore  reddens.  "  You  are  rude,  Jemima,  and  not  at 
all  witty." 

"  He  is  poor,  too,"  say  I,  with  rising  exasperation — 
"  unjustifiably  poor :  I  suppose  he  goes  upon  the  principle 
that  what  is  not  enough  for  one  is  enough  for  two  ?  " 

"I  suppose  he  does,"  she  answers,  quietly.  "I  like 
poverty." 

"  He  is  ill-tempered,  too,"  pursue  I,  eagerly.  "  Ah  !  you 
remember  what  a  fury  he  flew  into  at  Guingamp,  with  that 
poor  garpon  who  could  not  understand  his  bad  French  when 
he  asked  for  the  time-table  ?  " 

"  I  remember — I  like  ill-temper." 

"  And  he  is  also  a  gourmand,"  continue  I,  relentlessly. 
"  Did  you  notice  how  thoroughly  put  out  he  looked,  yester- 
day, at  dinner,  because  the  gelatine  was  finished  before  it 
reached  him  ?  " 

"  Did  he  ?     I  dare  say — I  like  greediness." 

I  shake  my  head,  silenced  and  baffled  by  this  hopeless 
agreement  with  all  my  objections." 

"  You  see,"  cries  Lenore,  with  a  triumphant  smile, 
"that,  try  as  you  may,  you  cannot  put  me  out  of  conceit 
with  him." 

"  The  point  I  am  trying  to  arrive  at,"  say  I,  with  a 
sigh,  "  is,  what  could  have  ever  put  you  into  conceit  with 
him  first  ?  Do  not  look  so  angry,  my  dear  child  !  I  am 
not  so  wedded  to  my  own  opinion,  but  that  I  am  quite 
ready  to  change  it,  if  you  show  me  good  reason  why  I 
should.  But — I  really  do  not  mean  it  offensively — but 
what  good  qualities  of  mind  or  body  has  Mr.  Le  Mesu- 
rier?" 


140  "QOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

Lenore  springs  off  the  bed,  and  begins  to  walk  rapidly 
up  and  down  the  room :  her  little  high  heels  tap-tapping 
against  the  carpetless  boards.  "How  you  talk!"  she 
cries,  angrily.  "  Do  you  think  that  when  a  person  loves 
they  pick  out  this  quality  and  that,  and  say,  '  This  is  lov- 
able,' and  '  That  is  lovable,'  and,  therefore,  I  will  be  fond 
of  the  person  who  owns  them  all  ?  One  loves  because  one 
loves — because  one  cannot  help  it,  and  because  one  would 
not,  if  they  could." 

"  Talk  High  Dutch  or  Coptic,  you  will  be  quite  as  in- 
telligible to  me,"  I  say,  indignantly. 

She  returns  to  the  bed,  and  fixes  her  large,  bright  eyes 
on  my  face.  "  Is  it  possible,  Jemima,"  she  asks,  "  that  in 
all  the  many  years  you  have  been  about  the  world "  (I 
wince),  "you  have  never  had  a  lover  that  you  cared  about 
with  all  your  heart  and  soul  for  no  particularly  good  reason 
that  you  could  give  either  yourself  or  anybody  else  ?  " 

"  Never,"  reply  I,  with  a  rather  grim  laugh.  "  Humil- 
iating as  the  confession  is,  I  should  have  thought,  Lenore, 
that  you  might  have  known  by  this  time  that  I  never  have 
had  a  lover,  either  that  I  cared  about,  or  that  I  did  not 
care  about,  and  I  do  not  think  that  there  are  many  women 
of  eight-and-twenty  that  can  make  that  proud  boast." 

"  Poor  Jemima ! "  cries  my  sister,  in  a  tone  of  the  sin- 
cerest  compassion,  taking  my  hand;  at  this  moment  she 
feels  ten  years  older  in  experience  and  emotion  than  I. 

"  Do  not  pity  me ! "  say  I,  with  asperity ;  "  Vapp'etit 
vient  en  mangeant :  if  I  had  one  lover,  I  might  wish  for 
more ;  but,  as  things  stand,  the  more  I  look  around  me,  the 
more  inclined  I  am  to  think  that  '  ignorance  is  bliss.'  " 

"  Good-night,  Jemima  ! "  says  Lenore,  stalking  to  the 
door,  with  as  much  dignity  as  a  water-proof  down  to  the 
heels  and  a  brass  candlestick  in  her  hand  will  permit;  "I 
am  sorry  I  woke  you ;  next  time  that  I  come  to  you  for 
sympathy — " 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  141 

"  Stay — stay ! "  cry  I,  vexed  at  the  effect  of  my  words, 
and  yet  puzzled  how  to  mend  them.  Sitting  up  in  bed, 
and  stretching  out  my  arms  to  her  :  "  Remember,  I  was  only 
half  awake ;  I  did  not  quite  take  it  in ;  I — I — dare  say  he 
is  very  nice  when  you  come  to  know  him."  (Lenore  pauses 
with  the  open  door  in  her  hand.)  "  He  looks  quite  like  a 
gentleman,  and — and  has  the  usual  younger  son's  portion. — 
Very  good  teeth,"  continue  I,  laughing  awkwardly,  and 
floundering  about  in  search  of  a  possible  excellence  in  mind 
or  body,  on  which  to  be  able  conscientiously  to  compliment 
my  sister's  lover.  "  I  am  sure — at  least  I  think — that  he 
will  improve  on  acquaintance." 

"  It  is  not  of  the  least  consequence  what  you  think  ! " 
says  Lenore,  in  a  fury,  banging  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XVH. 

WIIAT     THE     AUTHOR     SAYS. 

"  The  Lord  of  Nairn  and  his  lady  fair 
In  early  youth  united  were, 
In  early  youth  divided  were." 

"  Do  not  you  think  that  we  are  rather  like  the  Lord  and 
Lady  of  Naun,  engaged  yesterday,  to  be  separated  the  day 
after  to-morrow  ?  " 

It  is  Lenore  who  says  all  this :  she  is  strolling  along  be- 
side her  lover  down  one  of  the  lovely  old  streets  of  Morlaix, 
that  the  malignant  mania  for  smart  new  quays,  oroad,  bright 
new  thoroughfares,  has  not  yet  swept  away.  They  have 
been  prying  into  the  dim  interiors  ;  climbing  unforbidden 
the  dusty,  beautiful  wrecks  of  carven  stairs,  up  and  down 


142  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

which  the  stately  nobles  used  to  pace,  in  the  gone  centu- 
ries ;  and  where  now  only  dirty  gamins  roll  and  tumble, 
and  the  clump  of  sabots  comes.  Life  seems  easier  here  than 
in  England.  In  the  ancient,  timber-fronted  houses  people 
are  leaning  on  the  heavy  window-sills  miles  up  in  air ;  be- 
low, in  the  street,  they  seem  to  have  naught  to  do  but  to 
jaser  with  their  neighbors,  sitting  in  old  carved  door-ways ; 
while  bright  blankets  and  rugs  hung  out  in  the  front  make 
a  brilliant  bit  of  color.  At  almost  every  house,  birds,  hung 
in  wicker  cages — parrots,  canaries.  A  little  child  is  trot- 
ting about  in  the  gutter  with  a  bunch  of  cherries  in  its  lit- 
tle hand.  The  sun  is  beating,  blinding  hot,  on  the  fine, 
bare,  new  streets,  but  here  the  tall  friendly  houses  lean 
over,  story  above  story,  so  close  to  gossip  together  that 
{hey  intercept  his  rays. 

Lenore  has  furled  her  umbrella. 

"  I  do  not  think  that  my  worst  enemy  could  accuse  me 
of  being  in  early  youth,"  Paul  says,  with  a  smile. 

"  About  how  old  are  you  ?  "  asked  Lenore,  peering  up 
inquisitively  at  him.  "  You  are  one  of  those  baffling  sort  of 
people  who  might  be  any  age,  from  twenty-five  to  forty-five 
inclusive." 

"  I  am  half-way  between  the  two ;  I  am  thirty-five." 

"  You  look  more,  I  think,"  says  Lenore,  with  charming 
candor ;  "  I  suppose  it  is  that  horrid  beard." 

Le  Mesurier  does  not  answer,  but  he  does  not  look  par- 
ticularly pleased. 

"  You  know  I  have  never  yet  seen  your  real  face,"  con- 
tinues she,  slipping  her  hand  through  his  arm.  "  I  have 
the  vaguest  idea  of  what  sort  of  features  I  am  undertaking ; 
I  shall  be  like  the  lady  W7ho  was  so  short-sighted  that  she 
said  she  never  knew  her  husband  by  sight  until  they 
married:  this  appendage  must  come  off  before  we  meet 
again." 


WHAT  TEE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  143 

She  speaks  playfully,  but  in  the  imperative  mood  which 
has  been  habitual  to  her  through  life. 

Paul  thinks  the  imperative  mood  very  good  in  a  mem, 
but  utterly  inadmissible  in  a  woman. 

"  Must  it  ? "  he  answers,  very  shortly ;  then,  with  a 
rather  awkward  attempt  to  recover  his  good-humor :  "  Do 
not  you  know  what  the  early  Christians  said  ? — that  shav- 
ing was  a  lie  against  one's  own  face,  and  an  impious  at- 
tempt to  improve  the  works  of  the  Creator  ?  " 

Lenore  thrusts  out  her  fresh  lips  in  a  mutinous  pout. 

"  I  can  quote,  too ;  did  you  ever  hear  this  distich  ? " 
she  says,  saucily : 

" '  John  P.  Robinson,  he 

Said  they  did  not  know  every  thing  down  in  Judee.'  " 

Paul  looks  grave.  He  has  not  read  the  "  Biglow  Pa- 
pers," and  he  particularly  dislikes  flippancy  in  a  woman. 
Men  may  be  allowed  to  be  a  little  wicked  ;  but  all  women 
should  be  religious.  They  have  emerged  from  the  old 
street ;  have  left  behind  them  the  tall  slate-fronted  houses, 
nodding  to  each  other  over  the  way ;  have  left  also  the 
gables,  the  dormer-windows,  the  strange  saint-faces,  deftly 
wrought  in  wood.  They  are  sauntering  slowly  back  to 
their  hotel  through  the  more  modern  part  of  the  town. 
Morlaix  lies  so  prettily — viaduct,  river,  churches,  peaked 
houses,  all  hobnobbing  in  the  hollow  between  green  hills. 

"  What  will  you  be  doing  this  time  three  days  hence?  " 
asks  Lenore  presently,  with  a  half-pensive  smile,  abandon- 
ing the  obnoxious  subject  of  beards. 

"  Undergoing,  probably,  a  catechism  at  the  hands  of 
my  people,  as  to  your  merits  and  demerits,"  answers  Paul, 
laughing. 

"  What  will  they  ask  you  first  about  me  ? "  inquires 
she,  with  anxious  curiosity. 


144  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"How  can  I  tell?" 

"What  points  are  they  likely  to  lay  most  stress 
upon  ?  " 

"  They  will,  probably,"  begins  Paul,  with  some  reluc- 
tance, "  wish  to  know  first  whether  you  are  of  a  good  fami- 
ly. By-the-by,  do  not  be  angry  with  me  for  not  knowing ; 
but,  you  see,  I  should  like  to  be  ready  with  my  answer. 
Are  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  replies  the  girl,  dryly,  tossing  her  head 
away  with  a  jerk.  "  Came  over  with  the  Conqueror." 

"  Really  ?  "  cries  Paul,  with  an  eagerness  which  shows 
that,  whatever  other  weaknesses  he  may  be  superior  to,  he 
is  not  above  that  of  a  sincere  penchant  toward  pedigree. 

"  How  do  I  know  ?  "  cries  Lenore,  impatiently.  "  Who 
cares  ?  What  does  it  matter  ?  Grandfathers  do  not  make 
a  man,  or  a  woman  either." 

"  They  are  rather  apt,  however,  to  make  a  gentleman," 
answers  Paul,  somewhat  stiffly. 

"  I  always  tell  everybody,"  continues  she,  with  an 
arch-smile,  "  that  we  are  lineally  descended  from  the  poet. 
I  shall  not  mind  being  great-great-great-granddaughter  to 
4 Fair  Daffodils.'" 

"  And  are  you  ?  "  asks  her  lover,  resigning  himself  to 
come  down  six  centuries  in  his  expectations. 

"  I  have  not  the  slightest  reason  for  supposing  so,"  an- 
swers she,  with  a  careless  laugh. 

Paul  heaves  an  involuntary  sigh. 

"  What  will  the  next  article  be,  as  shop-keepers  say  ?  " 
asks  Lenore  presently,  giving  her  head  an  uneasy  toss,  and 
with  a  sort  of  swagger  in  her  voice,  which  is  quite  as  much 
the  result  of  nervousness  as  of  pride.  "  Whether  I  have 
any  money,  I  suppose  V  " 

"  Possibly,"  answers  he,  uncomfortably. 

"  And  you  will  reply,  '  Not  a  sou ! ' "    (Raising  her  two 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  145 

hands,  and  letting  them  fall  again  with  a  gesture  express- 
ive of  utter  destitution.) 

"Exactly." 

She  laughs  maliciously. 

"  How  I  should  like  to  see  their  faces  !  Grandfather 
doubtful,  and  pennilessness  certain !  You  would,  however, 
not  be  quite  correct;  I  have  several  sous — an  immense 
number,  in  fact.  How  many  sous  are  there  in  four  thou- 
sand pounds  in  the  three  per  cents  ?  " 

"  As  many  as  in  four  thousand  pounds  out  of  the  three 
per  cents,"  he  answers,  laughing. 

"  A  base  evasion  of  a  difficult  arithmetical  problem  ! 
Well,  sous  or  no  sous,  I  really  have  four  thousand  pounds." 

"  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it." 

"  Could  not  you  put  it  into  francs  when  you  mention  it 
to  your  family  ?  It  sounds  so  immense,  then." 

"  I  am  afraid  they  would  detect  the  imposture." 

"  Jemima  has  more — a  good  deal  more,"  says  Lenore, 
communicatively ;  "  still,  we  only  make  up  five  hundred 
pounds  a  year  between  us — a  fact,  however,  which  we  care- 
fully conceal  from  our  acquaintance,  having  learned  by  ex- 
perience the  entire  truth  of  Solomon's  epigram,  that  '  the 
poor,  even  his  neighbor  hateth  him  ! ' " 

They  reach  the  hotel,  the  empty  salon. 

"  It  is  a  contemptible  dot !  "  cries  Lenore,  indignantly, 
flinging  down  her  hat  on  the  floor,  and  herself  on  the  sofa. 
"  One  ought  to  be  superhumanly  handsome  to  induce  peo- 
ple to  overlook  it." 

"  It  is  better  than  nothing,"  replies  Paul,  with  a  philo- 
sophical if  lugubrious  attempt  to  look  at  his  beloved's  mi- 
nute portion  from  a  cheerful  point  of  view. 

"  Four  thousand  pounds !  "  repeats  Lenore,  scornfully. 
"  Not  four  thousand  pounds  a  year !  That  would  be  all 
very  well ;  but  four  thousand  pounds  for  the  whole  main- 
7 


146  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

tenance  and  support  of  a  reasonable  educated  being,  with 
a  fine  feeling  for  lace,  and  a  just  abhorrence  of  country 
boots  and  thread  gloves  ! " 

"  And  gingham  umbrellas  !  "  supplements  Le  Mesurier, 
laughing. 

"You  must  know  that  we  are  not  all  church-mice. 
However,"  says  Lenore,  presently,  "  for  the  credit  of  the 
family  I  must  tell  you  that  we  have  some  rich  people  among 
us — my  sister  Sylvia,  for  instance." 

"  Your  sister  Sylvia ! "  cries  Paul,  rather  aghast.  "  I 
had  no  idea  that  you  had  a  sister  Sylvia,  or  a  sister  any 
thing  else,  except  Jemima.  I  suppose  Thezia,  and  Therese, 
and  a  few  more,  will  transpire  by-and-by." 

"  Some  years  ago,  she  married,"  continues  the  girl, 
biographically.  "  She  is  a  pretty  little  cat,  with  eyes  as 
big  as  teacups ;  and  he — well,  he  was  old  enough  to  be 
everybody's  grandfather  "  (stretching  out  both  arms  com- 
prehensively). "  He  was  as  bald  as  my  hand "  (opening 
one  pretty  pink  palm),  "  as  fat  as  Falstaff,  as  ignorant  as  a 
carp,  and  he  had  made  his  money  by  that  yellow  grease 
that  they  put  on  railway-wheels." 

"  Good  Heavens  !  how  awful !  Is  he  alive  still  ?  "  asks 
Paul,  nervously. 

"  That  is  what  I  am  coming  to,"  continues  she,  gravely. 
"  In  poetic  justice  he  ought  to  have  had  creeping  paralysis, 
softening  of  the  brain — any  thing  that  would  have  kept 
her  tied  to  the  leg  of  his  bath-chair  for  the  next  twenty  or 
thirty  years,  as  a  judgment  on  her  for  marrying  him — in- 
stead of  which,  what  happens  ?  "  (Standing  before  him, 
and  gesticulating.)  "  Within  four  years  he  is  carried  off 
by  an  attack  of  apoplexy !  Bah  !  Y/hat  luck  some  peo- 
ple have ! " 

"  So  that  is  your  idea  of  luck  f  "  rejoins  Paul,  leaning 
his  chin  on  the  back  of  the  chair  on  which  he  is  sitting 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  147 

astride,  and  staring  curiously  up  at  her — "  to  marry  a  com- 
mercial porpoise,  and  survive  it ! " 

"  It  is  to  be  hoped,"  resumes  Lenore,  after  a  thoughtful 
pause,  marching  up  and  down  the  little  room,  "  that  your 
people  will  ask  whether  I  am  good-looking.  That  is  the 
one  question  to  which  you  could  give  a  really  satisfactory 
answer."  She  speaks,  not  with  the  blushing  naivete  of  a 
jeune  ingenue,  but  with  the  matter-of-fact  calmness  of  a 
woman  whose  early  contact  with  the  world  has  taught  the 
value  of  the  one  great  gift  she  has  been  given. 

"  If  they  do  not  ask,  I  must  volunteer  the  information." 

"  You  might  also,"  pursues  Lenore,  beginning  coolly  to 
check  off  her  accomplishments  on  her  fingers,  "  hint  to  them 
that  I  dance  extremely  well,  that —  " 

"  My  father  does  not  approve  of  dancing,"  interrupts 
Paul,  tilting  the  hind-legs  of  his  chair  till  he  nearly  topples 
over. 

Her  hands  drop  to  her  sides,  and  her  great  eyes  open 
wide  like  large  blue  flowers  in  the  sun.  "  Not  approve  of 
dancing !  What  a  dreadful  old  man !  What  can  he  be 
made  of?" 

"If  you  asked  my  eldest  brother,  he  would  answer, 
1  Cast-iron,'  judging  from  his  duration,"  replies  he,  with  a 
lazy  chuckle  of  amusement. 

"  And  does  he  not  allow  your  sister  to  dance  ?  "  asks 
Lenore,  looking  thoroughly  dashed  by  the  insight  just  af- 
forded her  into  her  future  father-in-law's  character. 

*'  They  may  walk  through  a  quadrille,  or  romp  through 
the  c  Lancers,'  if  they  choose,"  replies  Le  Mesurier,  still 
laughing  at  the  expression  of  his  betrothed's  face.  "  I 
would  not  be  they  if  they  were  to  be  caught  indulging  in 
any  wilder  mode  of  progression." 

"  Poor  dears  !  "  ejaculates  Lenore,  with  a  sigh  of  heart- 
felt compassion  ;  "  no  doubt,  however,  they  dance  like  der- 
vishes as  soon  as  lu's  back  is  turned." 


148  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  Is  that  the  course  you  mean  to  pursue  when  I  forbid 
you  to  do  any  thing  ?  "  asks  Paul,  in  jest,  but  almost  most 
heartily  in  earnest. 

"  Undoubtedly,"  replies  she,  coolly,  looking  back  at 
him  with  defiant  gravity.  "  From  the  time  I  could  walk 
alone  I  can  safely  say  that  I  have  never  yet  been  forbidden 
to  do  any  thing  that  I  did  not  instantly  strain  every  nerve 
to  do  it." 

If  Miss  Herrick  expects  her  lover  to  show  either  pleas- 
ure or  amusement  at  this  proof  of  her  spirit,  she  is  disap- 
pointed. He  only  says  "  Oh  !  "  and  coughs  rather  dryly. 

"Parents  and  guardians,  tutors  and  governors,  forbid" 
continues  Lenore,  incisively ;  "  one  does  not  hear  such  an 
ugly,  hectoring  word  mentioned  between  man  and  wife." 

"  I  have  an  idea,  however,"  retorts  Paul,  quietly,  "  that 
one  can  find  such  ugly,  hectoring  words  as  4  honor '  and 
4  obey '  in  the  Prayer-book.  I  will  show  you  the  place,  if 
you  like." 

"  One  cannot  always  take  the  Prayer-book  au  pied  de 
la  lettre"  says  Lenore,  lightly.  "  After  all,  I  dare  say  I 
shall  be  quite  as  likely  to  c  honor  and  obey '  you  as  you  to 
'  worship  '  me  ! " 

"  I  do  not  know  that "  (rising),  "  when  you  have  that 
blue  gown  on,  and  a  blue  ribbon  in  your  hair,  and  look 
?nee7^  I  am  not  far  off  it  now."  As  he  speaks  he  takes  her 
two  hands  in  his,  and  the  look  that  for  the  moment  makes 
the  wise  man  half-brother  to  the  idiot — that  no  doubt  made 
even  Solomon  himself  seem  but  a  foolish  fellow  among  his 
seven  hundred  charmers — invades  his  usually  shrewd  eyes. 

"  I  had  that  identical  blue  gown  on,  the  day  that  you 
so  good-naturedly  acted  as  Frederick's  proxy,"  replies  Le- 
nore, demurely. 

"  Lenore  !  "  says  Paul,  neither  heeding  nor  hearing  her 
allusion,  loosing  her  hands,  and  clasping  his  own  round  her 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  149 

waist,  "  I  have  told  you  what  I  shall  be  doing  when  I  am 
gone ;  tell  me  now  what  you  will !  I  do  not  want  you  to 
promise  to  look  at  the  moon,  or  say  your  prayers,  or  drink 
your  cup  of  tea  at  the  very  moment  I  do,  or  any  such 
folly,  but  (with  an  impatient  sigh)  I — I  suppose  in  these 
sort  of  cases  we  are  all  pretty  much  alike,  and — do  not 
laugh  at  me,  I  hate  being  laughed  at — I  should  like  to  be 
able  to  say  to  myself  at  such-and-such  an  hour,  Lenore  is 
doing  such-and-such  a  harmless  thing ;  if  not,  I  shall  be 
sure  to  imagine  that  you  are  up  to  some  mischief." 

"Thank  you." 

"  Come,  Lenore,  what  will  you  be  doing  the  first 
day?" 

"  The  first  day,"  says  the  girl,  feeling  a  vile  inclination 
to  be  sentimental  and  tearful,  and  resolving  not  to  be  con- 
quered by  it ;  "  the  first  day  I  shall  be  in  bed  all  day  with 
the  window-curtains  drawn ;  I  shall  refuse  all  food,  how- 
ever hungry  I  may  be ;  hitherto  I  have  not  found  that  love 
takes  away  the  appetite,  and  I  shall  cry  noisily,  obtrusive- 
ly, and  without  intermission." 

"  And  the  second  day  ?" 

"Half  of  the  second  day  I  shall  spend  in  gazing  at  your 
photograph,  that  one  of  Disderi's,  in  which  you  are  sitting 
with  your  back  to  Mont  Blanc,  looking  like  a  murderer; 
and  the  other  half  in  wrangling  with  Jemima  about  your 
attractions ;  we  have  already  had  one  or  two  passages-of- 
arms  as  to  the  shape  of  your  nose,  and  the  color  of  your 
eyes." 

"And  the  third  day?" 

"  The  third  day ! "  flinging  down  her  head  on  his 
shoulder;  "the  third  ugly,  empty,  immense  day!  How 
shall  I  get  through  it  ?  Well "  (recovering  herself,  and 
feeling  rather  ashamed  of  her  ebullition),  "  the  third  day  I 
may,  perhaps,  pluck  up  my  spirits  enough  to  enable  me  to 


150  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

try  and  while  that  handsome,  sulky,  sleepy  Scrope  boy  into 
the  mazes  of  a  gentle  flirtation." 

Paul  unclasps  his  hands  from  about  her  suddenly,  and 
walks  toward  the  balcony. 

"  What  is  the  matter  now  ?  "  cries  the  girl,  half  bewil- 
dered, half  offended ;  then,  breaking  into  a  laugh,  as  she 
catches  a  glimpse  of  his  face ;  "  Good  Heavens,  Paul,  how 
ill-tempered  you  can  look  when  you  try ;  I  thought  I  was 
a  pretty  good  hand  at  it,  but  I'm  nothing  to  you." 

"  I  detest  that  sort  of  jokes,"  replies  Paul,  tersely, 
turning  upon  her  a  thoroughly  cross,  jealous  face  ;  "  they 
are  not  ladylike !  " 

"  But  I  am  not  ladylike,  either,"  retorts  Lenore,  flinging 
up  her  head  and  growing  scarlet ;  "  did  I  ever  say  I  was  ? 
we  did  not  come  over  with  the  Conqueror ;  we  have  no 
more  to  say  to  the  poet  than  you  have  ;  it  is  my  belief  that 
we  are  roturier  to  the  back-bone  !  " 

She  was  standing  beside  him,  very  upright,  with  her 
hands  behind  her ;  her  voice  is  not  shrill,  it  is  not  its  way 
to  be  so ;  but  it  is  undoubtedly  raised  two  or  three  tones 
above  its  usual  low  key ;  little  sparks  of  fire  are  darting 
from  her  eyes,  and  her  cheeks  are  redder  than  the  red  rose 
in  her  belt. 

Delightfully  handsome  as  a  picture,  certainly ;  but  as  a 
future  wife  ?  "  Is  it  possible  that  she  can  have  told  me  the 
truth  when  she  said  that  hitherto  I  had  seen  only  the  best 
of  her  ?  "  thinks  Paul,  with  a  cold  qualm. 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  151 

CHAPTER  XVHI. 

WHAT     THE     AUTHOR     SATS. 

"GOOD-BYE"  is  an  ugly  word:  written  or  spoken,  it 
has  an  ill  look — a  down-looking,  sighing,  weeping  word. 
There  is  something  faintly  disagreeable  even  in  the  limp 
hand-shake  with  which  one  parts  from  a  disrelished,  tedious 
guest,  as  one  thinks,  with  slight  remorse,  that  perhaps  he 
was  not  so  bad  after  all.  But  of  all  delusions  and  all 
snares,  seeing  people  off  is  the  worst.  It  is  bad  enough  to 
take  indifferent  acquaintance  to  the  train — to  stand  with 
your  hand  on  the  carriage-door — the  last  civil  regret  ut- 
tered, the  last  friendly  hope  for  a  speedy  meeting  again 
expressed  ;  the  smile  of  farewell  stereotyped  on  your  lips, 
while  your  ears  thirst  for  the  engine's  parting  whistle, 
which  will  not  come  for  five  minutes  yet.  But  how  far 
worse  to  see  one  that  is  really  dear  to  you  off  on  a  long 
voyage  !  To  stand  on  a  cold,  dirty  quay  on  some  dull  No- 
vember morning,  while  the  huge,  drab-gray  sea  heaves  and 
booms  before  you,  suggestive  of  shipwreck,  while  the  har- 
bor is  robed  in  mist,  and  through  it  the  tall  ship's  masts 
and  rigging  show  indistinctly  great ;  while  all  about  you 
unfeeling  men  roll  barrels  and  carry  bales,  and  under  your 
veil  your  tears  drip  miserably,  to  the  great  annoyance  of  the 
dear  one,  who,  if  he  be  equally  grieved,  yet,  manlike,  feels 
angry  with  you  for  adding  to  his  sufferings ;  and  if  (as  is 
most  probable)  he  is  not  equally  grieved,  yet  is  constrained, 
out  of  sympathy,  to  pull  a  long  face,  while  his  manly  soul 
yearns  for  the  consolation  of  a  pipe  and  cognac !  Even  if 
you  are  absolutely  certain  never  to  see  a  beloved  one  again, 
yet  abstain  from  "seeing  him  off." 

But  Lenore  thinks  differently ;  she  is  bent  on  seeing 


152  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

the  last  of  Paul.  The  voyage  from  St.-Malo  to  Southamp- 
ton is  certainly  not  a  long  one,  but  in  this  case  it  is  not 
the  actual  breadth  of  the  seas  which  lie  between  the  lovers 
that  constitutes  the  bitterness  of  the  parting.  Paul  is  go- 
ing on  a  doubtful  errand — to  break  to  two  doting  sisters 
and  a  gouty  Calvin  istic  father  the  news  that  he  has  at 
length  found  a  woman  to  his  mind  ;  a  woman  (as  he  him- 
self uncomfortably  feels)  of  the  very  kind  most  antipathetic 
to  his  people. 

Lenore,  meanwhile,  has  resolved  to  pass  the  time  of 
suspense  that  must  ensue  at  Dinan.  She  has  wisely  made 
up  her  mind  to  go  over  each  sacred  spot  where  they  first 
met  and  squabbled,  and  to  weep  plentifully  at  each.  She 
will  be  in  no  whit  behind  Marianne  Dashwood  in  "  Sense 
and  Sensibility,"  who  "  would  have  thought  herself  very  in- 
excusable had  she  been  able  to  sleep  at  all  the  first  night 
after  parting  from  Willoughby." 

Meanwhile,  they  have  made  up  their  little  differences. 
Paul  has  eaten  his  words — has  assured  his  betrothed  that 
he  habitually  values  people  for  their  own  merits,  not  for 
those  of  their  forbears ;  that,  in  fact,  he  looks  upon  ances- 
tors as  rather  a  disadvantage  than  otherwise.  And  she, 
on  the  other  hand,  not  to  be  behindhand  in  magnanimity, 
has  been  racking  her  brains  to  recollect  an  authentic  great- 
grandfather. 

Le  Mesurier  has  done  his  best  to  dissuade  his  beloved 
from  coming  to  wave  her  pocket-handkerchief  after  him  as 
he  sails  away  from  St.-Malo,  but  in  vain. 

"  It  will  be  too  much  for  you  ;  it  will  upset  you  !  "  he 
has  said,  tenderly,  but  she  has  answered  with  a  wilful  smile 
and  shake  of  the  head. 

"  Nothing  ever  upsets  me,  except  not  getting  my  own 
way ;  that  has  always  injured  my  health  from  my  youth 
up." 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  153 

So  he  is  silenced,  and  has  perforce  to  submit,  with  what 
grace  he  can,  to  the  prospect  of  what  he  most  dreads  on 
the  earth's  face — a  scene,  and  being  publicly  cried  over. 

Still  he  makes  one  struggle  more  against  his  fate. 

"  I  hate  saying  '  good-bye ' — do  not  you,  Scrope  ?  "  he 
says,  that  night,  to  his  friend,  as  they  sit  on  the  hotel-steps 
smoking,  under  the  yellow  moon,  which  in  her  third  quarter 
looks  odd  and  three-cornered. 

"  I  hate  saying  any  thing  this  weather,"  replies  Scrope, 
languidly.  "  I  should  like  to  keep  a  little  boy  to  make  re- 
marks for  me,  and  they  would  chiefly  be  requests  for  iced 
drinks." 

"  Suppose,"  continues  Paul,  "  that  we  give  them  "  (in- 
dicating, with  a  motion  of  his  head,  the  direction  where 
he  supposes  Jemima  and  Lenore  to  be)  "  the  slip,  and  start 
by  the  early  train  to-morrow  morning ;  I  have  been  look- 
ing, and  there  is  one  at  6.40." 

"  Start ! "  echoes  Scrope,  with  more  energy  than  he  had 
any  idea  that  the  hot  weather  had  left  him,  holding  his 
cigar  between  two  fingers,  and  looking  reproachfully  at  his 
friend.  "  Your  sole  ideas  of  the  pleasures  of  travelling 
are  *  starting '  and  '  arriving ; '  the  sole  enjoyment  you  have 
in  a  landscape  is  tracing  where  the  railway  runs.  My  dear 
fellow,  I  have  already  an  indigestion  of  trains,  boats,  dili- 
gences ;  I  have  as  much  idea  of  starting  by  the  early  train 
as  the  late  train,  and  the  late  train  as  the  early  train.  I 
mean,  D.  V.,  never  to  start  again." 

"  No  more  would  T,  if  I  could  help  it,"  replies  Paul, 
gloomily.  "  I  have  naturally  more  cause  to  wish  to  stay 
than  you,  but  when  one  has  a  father,  and  that  father  has 
the  gout—" 

"  Gout  is  apt  to  make  parents  insubordinate,"  says 
Scrope,  coolly;  "but,  you  see"  (in  a  tone  rather  self- 
gratulatory  than  regretful),  "  I  have  no  father,  and  there 


154  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

is  no  reason  why  I  should  get  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
because  you  have  one." 

"  You  do  not  mean  to  come  home  yet,  then  ?  "  exclaims 
Paul,  in  a  tone  in  which  surprise  and  suspicion  contend  for 
mastery. 

Scrope  turns  his  head  half  away. 

"  Why,  no — I  think  not ;  I  expect  to  be  a  sadder  and 
a  wiser  man  by  the  time  I  next  see  the  chalk-cliffs  of 
Albion." 

A  few  moments  of  silence. 

Scope  picks  up  a  pebble,  and  aims  it  at  the  landlord's 
poodle,  which,  at  once  dirty  and  ridiculous,  and  happily 
unconscious  of  being  either,  is  trotting  bravely  along,  with 
his  shorn  tail  borne  gallantly  aloft. 

"  Which  route  do  you  mean  to  follow  ?  "  asks  Le  Mesu- 
rier,  presently,  with  hardly  so  much  of  confidential  friend- 
ship in  his  voice  as  there  was  when  the  conversation  first 
began.  "  Strike  across  country  from  here  to  Napoleon- 
ville,  or  go  round  by  Auray  and  Carnac  ?  " 

Scrope  does  not  seem  in  any  hurry  to  answer. 

"  I  do  not  think  I  shall  follow  any  route  at  all,"  he  says, 
at  length,  slowly,  and  looking  rather  guilty.  "  Walking- 
tours  "  (beginning  to  laugh)  "  wear  out  boots  in  a  way 
that  I  cannot  justify  to  myself." 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of  doing  with  yourself,  then  ?  " 
rather  austerely. 

"  How  do  I  know  ?  "  says  Scrope,  wearily,  and  yawn- 
ing ;  "  do  I  ever  know  ?  I  shall  probably  go  wherever  the 
wind  blows  me,  like  a  dead  leaf." 

"  A  most  apt  simile,"  says  Paul,  with  a  dry  look  at  the 
healthy  solidity  of  his  companion's  tall  figure,  and  of  the 
legs,  at  which  he  is  at  the  present  moment  pensively  gaz- 
ing. "  Cannot  you  give  a  guess  as  to  the  direction  in 
which  your  attenuated  person  is  likely  to  be  wafted  ?  " 


WHAT  TEE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  155 

"  Not  the  slightest,"  replies  Scrope,  nonchalantly ;  then, 
with  a  boyish  blush  :  "  To  Dinan,  perhaps." 

"  To  Dinan  ! "  cries  Paul,  sharply,  looking  thoroughly 
and  unaffectedly  and  most  angrily  jealous.  "  What  on 
earth  should  take  you  back  there  ?  " 

"  Did  I  not  tell  you  just  now — the  wind  ?  "  replies  the 
other. 

Paul  rises,  unable  to  conceal  his  ill-temper,  and,  not 
willing  to  indulge  it,  begins  to  walk  hastily  up  and  down 
before  the  hotel-door.  Scrope  draws  himself  lazily  up 
from  the  sitting  posture,  and  languidly  walks  to  join  his 
friend. 

"  My  dear  Paul,"  he  says,  coldly,  and  yet  smiling,  "  if 
you  had  not  been  so  completely  taken  up  with  your  own 
little  game — so  brutally  selfish  and  self-absorbed  as  lovers 
always  are,  you  might  have  perceived  that  I  too  have  a  lit- 
tle game. 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  " 

"  My  good  fellow,  do  not  look  as  if  you  were  going  to 
run  your  nose  through  my  body,"  says  Scrope,  with  a 
rather  unkind  allusion  to  the  saliency  of  one  feature  of  his 
friend's  face.  "  What  I  mean  is  this :  while  you  have  been 
amusing  yourself  making  love  to  the  young  Miss  Herrick, 
I  have  been  laying  siege  to  the  old  one.  It  has  been 
rather  up-hill  work,  as  she  did  not  seem  to  understand  the 
situation ;  but  I  hope,  by  God's  grace,  to  make  her  see  my 
drift  in  time." 

"  My  dear  boy,"  taking  his  arm,  but  still  looking  half 

unbelieving,  "  she  is  old  enough  to  be  your  grandmother ! " 

"  I  know  she  is ;   that  is  why  I  like  her.     You  know 

you  have  often  accused  me  of  a  depraved  taste  for  old 

women.     I  own  it ;  I  like  them  mellow." 

Paul  laughed,  but  not  merrily. 

"  So  you  see,"  continues  Scrope,  "  so  far  from  my  help- 


156  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 


ing  you  to  evade  your  '  good-byes,'  you  have  a  harrowing 
parting  with  me  too  to  look  forward  to." 

"  I  wish  to  Heaven  it  was  over !  "  says  Paul,  devoutly. 
"  I  would  give  any  one  ten  pounds  to  get  me  clear  off,  with- 
out saying  c good-bye'  to  any  one.  But,"  with  a  sigh, 
"  you  see,  Lenore,"  the  name  does  not  come  very  glibly 
yet,  "  seems  to  have  set  her  heart  on  seeing  me  off." 

"  You  ungrateful  dog !  "  cries  Scrope,  with  an  indigna- 
tion none  the  less  real  because  affected  to  be  feigned. 
"  Why  will  the  gods  always  cast  their  pearls  before  swine  ? 
W^ould  to  Heaven  that  any  handsome  woman  would  set 
her  heart  upon  seeing*  me  off !  I  should  be  the  last  to 
oppose  her." 

"  It  would  show  how  little  you  cared  about  her,  then," 
replies  the  other,  briefly ;  and  then,  ashamed  and  afraid  of 
having  been  demonstrative,  walks  away  into  the  hotel. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

WHAT     THE     AUTHOK     SAYS. 

•  So  Lenore  has  her  wish ;  and  together  they  all  retrace 
their  steps,  and  journey  back  to  St.-Malo.  And  now  the 
heavy  parting  day  has  come — the  day  that  is  to  interpose 
the  cold,  gray  sea  between  him  and  her.  There  are  but 
three  hours  now  till  the  moment  when  Paul  will  set  forth 
on  his  return  to  old  associations,  to  the  strong  influences 
of  use  and  wont,  leaving  Brittany  and  new  love  behind 
him.  All  the  morning  they  have  been  strolling  about  the 
old  town  and  the  ramparts,  two-and-two — the  lovers  and 
the  playing-at-lovers.  Judging  by  appearances,  the  latter 
seem  to  be  enjoying  themselves  the  most. 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  157 

By-and-by  Lenore  and  her  betrothed  stray  away  from 
the  others,  across  the  sands,  that  twice  a  day  the  tide's 
long  wash  covers,  and  twice  a  day  again  uncovers ;  across 
the  sands  to  the  little  bare  island,  where  Chateaubriand — 
in  no  graveyard,  hustled  by  no  dead  kin — has  wished  to 
sleep  out  his  last  sleep.  They  have  climbed  through  the 
sands  and  the  sand-colored  bents  to  the  little  eminence, 
where,  with  no  name  graved  upon  them,  no  date,  no  vale- 
dictory text,  stand  the  simple  white  cross  and  slab  that 
mark  the  spot  were  the  restless  Rene  lies.  On  the  very 
edge  of  the  precipice  he  is  sleeping,  and  beneath  him  the 
rocks  slant  sheer  down,  and  at  their  base  come  the  steal- 
ing summer  waves  with  a  slow,  soft  lapping.  Lenore  leans 
on  the  railing  that  Chateaubriand  begged  his  fellow- 
townsmen  to  place  round  his  tomb,  "pour  empecher  les 
animaux  d  me  deterrer"  and  stands  looking  seaward, 
parted-lipped,  tasting  the  salt  wind. 

"Jemima  will  be  very  clever  if  she  gets  Scrope  up 
here,"  says  Paul,  with  a  determination  to  say  something 
very  commonplace,  in  the  hope  of  ridding  himself  of  the 
sense  of  sad  solemnity  that  the  place,  the  sighing  wind,  and 
his  own  approaching  parting,  combined  to  produce. 

"  She  will  not  try,"  answers  Lenore,  not  changing  her 
attitude.  "  Jemima  hates  c  Atala,'  and  she  loves  limpets, 
and  little  crabs,  and  all  sorts  of  noisome  monsters  of  the 
deep.  If  Mr.  Scrope  were  not  with  her,  she  would  take  off 
her  shoes  and  stockings,  and  paddle" 

"  Scrope  would  paddle,  too,  on  the  smallest  encourage- 
ment," says  Paul,  laughing ;  "  just  the  sort  of  thing  that 
would  suit  him — cool,  and  no  trouble ;  and  besides,  he  tells 
me  that  he  is  very  much  smitten  with  Jemima." 

Lenore  turns  away  her  large  eyes  from  her  abstracted 
contemplation  of  the  purple  waves  and  the  glancing  sea- 
gulls ;  turns  them  on  Paul,  full  of  a  sort  of  careless  sur- 


158  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

prise.  "  Unhappy  young  man,"  she  says,  calmly  ;  "  what 
could  have  induced  him  to  tell  such  a  shocking  story?" 

"  Why  might  not  it  be  true  ?  " 

"  It  mighf,"  says  Lenore,  indifferently ;  "  but  it  is  not. 
Mr.  Scrope — Charlie  Scrope,  is  not  he  ?  he  looks  like  Char- 
lie— is  no  more  smitten  with  Jemima  than  he  is  with 

Who  shall  I  say?" 

"Than  with  yW 

"  Well,  than  with  me,  if  you  like." 

"  You  do  not  seem  to  think  that  that  is  putting  it  very 
strongly,"  says  Paul,  suspiciously. 

"  What  does  it  matter  whom  he  is  smitten  with,  or 
whom  he  is  not  ? "  cries  Lenore,  with  evasive  vehemence. 
"  What  does  it  matter  whether  he  is  alive  or  dead  ?  We 
have  only  two  hours  left,  and  we  are  wasting  our  time  talk- 
ing about  him" 

"  I  am,  naturally,  rather  interested  in  my  successor  in 
walks,  and  talks,  and  moonlight  strolls,"  says  Paul,  with  a 
bitter  jest. 

"  Is  not  he  going  to  set  off  to-morrow  on  that  ever- 
talked-about,  and  never-walked,  walking-tour  ? "  asks  Le- 
nore, surprised.  "  I  thought  he  was,  but  I  suppose  '  the 
wish  was  father  to  the  thought.'  " 

"Walking-tour,  indeed!"  says  Paul,  scornfully..  ."I 
know  what  that  means :  lying  at  your  feet  under  the  chest- 
nuts at  Mont  Parnasse,  and  reading  Byron  and  Shelley  to 
you ! " 

"Being  read  aloud  to  always  sends  me  to  sleep." 

"  Promise  me  "  (looking  very  eager),  "  asleep  or  awake, 
not  to  flirt  with  him." 

"  I  will  promise  nothing  so  ridiculous,"  answers  she, 
contemptuously.  "  Flirt  with  an  infant  that  gets  red  all 
over  when  I  speak  to  it! — that  trembles  and  stammers 
when  I  remark  to  it  that  '  it  is  a  hot  day ! '  Bah  !  " 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SATS.  159 

"  It  is  a  singular  fact,"  says  Paul,  dryly,  "  that  it  is  only 
in  your  society  that  it  blushes,  and  trembles,  and  stam- 
mers ;  most  people  find  it  a  brazen-faced  and  fluent  infant 
enough." 

"Do  they?" 

"  You  will,  at  all  events,  promise  not  to  let  it "  (laugh- 
ing) "  read  poetry  to  you  ? — for  it  is  a  handsome  fellow, 
and  a  sentimental." 

"  Can  it  read?"  (with  an  air  of  surprise).  "I  should 
have  thought  it  had  not  got  beyond  B — a,  ba,  B — e,  be> 
B— i,  bi,  B— o,  bo,  B— u,  bu— " 

"  Lenore,"  says  Paul,  very  gravely,  "  however  you  may 
choose  to  ignore  the  fact,  you  know,  as  well  as  I  do,  that 
Scrope  is  a  grown  man,  and  a  disgustingly  good-looking 
one.  Swear  to  me  to  be  as  little  alone  with  him  as  possi- 
ble— swear  to  me  not  to  flirt  with  him  !  " 

"  Make  me  swear  not  to  give  him  a  pop-gun,  or  play 
c  tip-cat '  with  him  !  It  would  be  much  more  rational," 
answers  Lenore,  derisively.  (Paul  turns  away.)  "  Do  not 
be  vexed,"  she  cries,  very  gravely,  laying  her  hand  on  his 
arm.  "  If  it  will  give  you  the  least  grain  of  pleasure,  I 
will  promise  to  cut  him  out-and-out,  henceforth  and  forever. 
I  will  not  even  say  '  Good-morning '  and  ;  Good-evening '  to 
him.  Do  you  think  it  would  be  any  privation  to  me  ?  Set 
me  some  harder  task — something  difficult  and  disagreeable 
to  do— against  you  come  back,  for  your  sake !  Perhaps  it 
will  make  the  enormous  days  go  a  little  quicker."  Her 
eyes'  fill  with  tears  as  she  speaks ;  the  sea-gulls  scream, 
and  Paul  sighs  heavily.  "  I  hope  it  is  not  a  bad  omen," 
she  says,  winking  away  the  drops  from  her  curled  lashes  ; 
"  but  you  are  the  first  person  or  thing  that  ever  succeeded 
in  making  me  cry.  I  never  could  cry  over  books,  or  at 
plays,  or  when  "people  died  ;  I  did  not  know  that  I  had  any 
tears  about  me,  till  I  met  you." 


160  "GOOb-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  Lenore  !  "  (half  indignantly,  half  hurt),  "  what  a  more 
than  doubtful  compliment ! '' 

"  I  will  never  pay  it  you  again,"  she  says,  with  confi- 
dent hopefulness.  "  Henceforth,  my  life  will  be  all  plain- 
sailing  :  I  see  it  as  clearly  as  that  shining  wake  of  yellow 
light  behind  the  steamer  out  there.  You  must  tell  your 
father"  (speaking  between  joke  and  earnest)  "that  no  one 
has  ever  thwarted  or  contradicted  me  all  my  life,  and  that 
he  must  please  to  follow  suit." 

Paul  smiles  rather  sadly,  and  shakes  his  head :  "  I  am 
afraid  he  would  answer  that  neither  has  any  one  ever 
thwarted  or  contradicted  him  all  his  life,  and  that  you 
must  please  to  follow  suit." 

A  pause. 

"  What  is  there  so  obnoxious  about  me  ?  "  cries  Lenore, 
suddenly  turning  away  from  the  grave,  and  facing  her  lover 
with  a  flushed,  proud  face.  "  Why  should  he  object  to  me 
so  strongly,  as  I  see  you  think  he  will  ?  " 

"  God  knows !  Perhaps  he  will  not !  Who  can  answer 
for  the  freaks  of  a  man  possessed  by  the  twin  devils  of  gout 
and  Calvin  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  money,  certainly ;  but  neither  have  nine- 
tenths  of  the  women  that  men  marry,  and  no  one  thinks  of 
getting  up  to  forbid  the  banns." 

"  Quite  true." 

"  I  come  of  a  good  and  a  healthy  stock ;  we  never  run 
away  with  our  neighbors'  wives,  or  have  D.  T.,  or  go 
mad ! " 

"  That  is  more  than  I  can  say  for  us !  At  least,  we  do 
not  go  cracked;  but  we  occasionally  indulge  in  the  other 
two  pastimes  you  mentioned." 

"  I  am  not  a  flirt." 

"  No  ?  "  (more  interrogatively  than  assentingly). 

"  Nor  fast." 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  161 

"No— o"  (rather  slowly  and  doubtfully). 

"  I  am  not  fast,"  she  repeats,  stoutly ;  "  how  can  I  be  ? 
I  do  not  hunt ;  I  do  not  drink  hock  and  seltzer  for  break- 
fast ;  I  do  not  smoke" 

"  Good  Heavens,  I  should  hope  not ! " 

"  Make  me  out  as  nice  as  you  can  to  your  people,  even 
at  the  expense  of  strict  veracity,"  says  Lenore,  coaxingly. 
"  Indeed"  (with  a  little  air  of  complacency),  "by  softening 
a  shadow  here  and  striking  out  a  light  there,  I  really  de- 
scribe very  well." 

"  Even  without  that  process,"  says  Paul,  with  a  proud 
smile. 

"  For  instance,"  continues  she,  with  a  deepened  color, 
and  a  shamed,  though  defiant  laugh,  "  you  need  not  enter 
into  detail  with  regard  to  the  peculiar  circumstances  that 
attended  our  first  meeting." 

"  I  should  think  not!"  (very  much  accentuated). 

"  I  do  not  see  what  necessity  there  is  for  so  much  em- 
phasis," rejoins  Lenore,  rather  offended ;  "  it  was  a  bad 
joke,  because,  thanks  to  Frederick's  imbecility  and  your 
straightlacedness,  it  failed.  If  you  had  been  a  different 
kind  of  man,  and  it  had  succeeded,  it  would  have  been  a 
good  one." 

"  Good  or  bad,"  says  Paul,  with  a  promising  forestalling 
of  marital  authority  in  his  voice,  "  I  shall  be  very  much 
obliged  if  you  will  not  repeat  it  while  I  am  away,  Lenore." 

For  a  moment  she  looks  mutinous ;  then,  at  the  sight 
of  the  green  sea,  the  steamers,  and  the  thoughts  that  both 
suggest,  melts  utterly.  "  I  will  not — I  will  not ! "  she  cries, 
eagerly.  "  Do  you  think  I  shall  have  time  for  jokes  ?  I 
shall  spend  all  my  days  and  all  my  nights  in  trying  to  be  a 
really  nice  girl  by  the  time  you  come  back.  A  really  nice 
girl,"  she  repeats,  dreamily.  "  I  have  been  called  a  tall 
girl,  and  an  odious  girl,  and  a  sharp  girl,  and  now  and  then 


162  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

a  deuced  handsome  girl ;  but  never  to  my  recollection,  in 
all  my  life,  have  I  been  called  a  nice  girl." 

"Poor  Lenore  !  "  (stroking  her  bright  hair),  "  strange  to 
say,  you  have  at  last  found  some  one  to  think  you  nice." 

"  Have  I  ?  "  (looking  quite  at  sea).     "  Who  ?  " 

"  Who  ?  "     Why  I,  to  be  sure." 

"  You  !  "  (shaking  her  head).     "  Oh  no,  you  do  not." 

It  is  a  flat  contradiction ;  but  it  does  not  sound  rude. 
He  does  not  asseverate.  Bewitching,  charming,  madden- 
ing— she  is  all  these ;  but  "  nice  f  "  The  epithet  has  a  do- 
mestic, home-keeping,  quiet  sound,  that  does  not  seem  to 
fit  her. 

"  I  must  practise  being  lady-like,  and  gentle,  and  sweet, 
against  I  see  your  people,  or  these  virtues  will  sit  as  un- 
easily on  me  as  an  ill-made  cloak,"  she  says,  with  a  rather 
anxious  laugh. 

"  Do  not  be  in  any  hurry  to  see  my  people,"  cries  Paul, 
hastily.  "  I  am  not.  I  had  far  rather  keep  you  to  myself." 

"  Would  you  ?  Do  you  know  "  (taking  his  hand,  and 
smiling  softly),  "  I  have  been  vexing  myself  with  the  thought 
that,  try  as  I  may,  I  never  can  give  you  all  my  life  ?  There 
must  always  remain  eighteen  years  in  which  you  have  had 
neither  part  nor  lot,  and  in  which  other  men  have.  I  can- 
not, indeed  "  (laughing  a  little),  "  accuse  myself  of  having 
ever  been  over-civil  to  your  sex ;  but  once  I  gave  a  man  a 
bunch  of  violets,  and  once  I  got  up  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
morning  to  see  another  man  off  to  India,  I  dare  say  you 
have  done  many  worse  things,  but  I  do  not  believe  they 
can  weigh  on  your  mind  half  so  much  ?  " 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  do  not  let  us  compare  notes ! " 
says  Paul,  with  a  hasty  flush,  while  his  mental  eye  flashes 
back  over  the  occupations  of  his  grown-up  years.  "  I  do 
not  want  to  make  you  believe  that  I  have  been  worse  than 
other  men,  and  I  have  not  Lawrence's  idea,  that,  by  being 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  163 

superlatively  immoral,  one  is  more  likely  to  win  a  good 
woman's  love ;  but  still  (sighing),  beside  your  sweet  white 
life,  mine  looks  black  enough.  Let  us  cry  quits,  Lenore, 
and  make  a  fresh  start.  If  you  stick  to  me,  I  swear  to  you 
that,  for  the  future,  mine  shall  be  as  white  as  yours." 

"  We  shall  be  like  two  lilies  on  one  stalk,"  says  Lenore, 
with  levity ;  but  her  eyes  are  wet. 

After  all,  it  is  Paul  that  sees  Lenore  off,  and  not  Lenore 
Paul.  The  Dinan  boat  starts  several  hours  before  the 
Southampton  one.  The  bitter  "  good-bye  "  has  really  come. 
The  passengers  are  stepping  on  board,  and  seating  them- 
selves in  the  bows  and  on  the  rickety  camp-stools  on  the 
hatchways.  Three  old  Frenchwomen  are  chattering  togeth- 
er, asking  each  other  whether  they  are  not  "  fatigue  par  le 
vent  f  "  Black  smoke  is  pouring  out  of  the  little  black  fun- 
nel ;  the  paddle-boxes,  black  and  white  like  magpies — bird 
hateful  to  the  French  soul — contrast  the  green  water  that 
they  rest  on.  A  devoted  Breton  pbre  defamille  is  return- 
ing to  his  home  with  three  red-and-yellow  paper  twirligigs 
in  his  hand ;  evidently  his  offspring  number  three. 

"  For  God's  sake,  do  not  forget  me,  Paul  1 "  Lenore  is 
saying,  in  a  low,  broken  voice.  She  has  one  of  her  lover's 
hands  tight  held  in  both  hers ;  her  face  is  as  white  as  death, 
and  the  tears  are  pouring  down  it.  She  has  never  much 
regard  for  appearances,  and  she  is  entirely  reckless  of  them 
now ;  in  a  water-proof,  quite  down  to  her  heels,  she  looks 
like  a  young  grenadier — only,  surely,  never  had  grenadier 
so  wet  and  woe-begone  a  face.  "  Think  of  me  every 
minute,  even  if  you  think  something  disagreeable.  Oh,  if 
I  had  but  some  one  to  talk  of  me  to  you !  But  I  have  not 
— no  one;  you  will  never  hear  my  name,  or,  if  any  one 
does  mention  it,  he  will  say  no  good  of  me :  nobody  ever 
does ! " 

"  IVfy  dearest  child,  do  not  talk  such  nonsense  ! "  says 


164  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

Paul,  hastily,  casting  a  furtive  glance  round  to  see  whether 
any  one  is  laughing.  He  is  very  miserable  himself,  but" he 
is  not  quite  so  much  swallowed  up  by  his  grief  as  not  to 
retain  an  uneasy  curiosity  as  to  whether  their  pretty  pose 
does  not  afford  mirth-matter  to  their  fellow-voyagers.  He 
catches  the  stoker,  who  has  just  come  up,  streaming  with 
perspiration,  and  black  as  night,  from  the  lower  regions, 
flagrante  delicto.  He  is  smiling,  and  nudging  a  neighbor. 
Mr.  Le  Mesurier  relieves  his  mind  by  scowling  at  him. 

"  I  cannot  stand  this  much  longer,"  says  Scrope,  in  a 
suppressed  voice,  to  Jemima.  Mr.  Scrope  is  unable  to  keep 
quiet ;  he  is  turning  red  and  pale,  and  biting  his  lips.  "  It 
really  is  too  sickening.  These  ceremonies  ought  to  be 
strictly  private,  or  altogether  omitted.  Do  not  you  think 
so,  Miss  Herrick  ?  " 

"  Do  not  look  that  way,"  said  Jemima,  drily. 

"  I  cannot  help  it ;  there  is  a  sort  of  horrible  fascination. 
Thank  God,  there's  the  bell !  Miss  Jemima,  why  the — why, 
I  mean,  does  no  one  ever  cry  over  me  f  " 

"  You  are  not  going  away  ?  " 

"  But  if  I  were,  who  would  ?  I  never  caused  any  one's 
tears  to  flow  in  my  life,  except  my  small  brother's,  when  I 
licked  him  at  school." 

"  Be  a  good  girl,  Lenore,  and  do  not  flirt  with  Scrope  ! 
These  are  my  last  words  to  you.  God  bless  you,  my  dar- 
ling!" 

Paul  has  at  last  forgotten  the  rest  of  the  company ;  the 
stoker  may  laugh  his  fill;  he  sees  nothing  but  Lenore's 
drowned  blue  eyes,  and  his  own  are  not  far  from  matching 
them. 

And  in  this  fashion  they  part. 


WHA  T  THE  A  UTHOR  SA  YS.  1 65 


NO  ON. 

'  And  in  the  eye  of  noon,  my  love 

Shall  lead  me  from  my  mother's  door, 
Sweet  boys  and  girls,  all  clothed  in  white, 
Strewing  flowers  before. 

But  first  the  nodding  minstrels  go, 
With  music  meet  for  lordly  bowers ; 

The  children  next,  in  snow-white  vests, 
Strewing  buds  and  flowers. 

'  And  then  my  love  and  I  shall  pace, 
My  jet-black  hair  in  pearly  braids, 

Between  our  comely  bachelors 
And  blushing  bridal-maids." 


CHAPTER  I. 

WHAT    THE     AUTHOR     SAYS. 

ARE  you  of  those  who  hate  Winter,  or  of  those  who 
love  him  ?  Do  you  shrink  from  his  strong  ice-clasp  ;  or  do 
you  hold  out  your  right  hand  to  him  heartily,  saying,  "  You 
are  welcome  ?  "  Do  you  love  the  enjoyments  that  are  to 
be  fought  for  (so  to  speak)  by  effort  and  exertion,  with 
quick  blood  and  high  pulses ;  or  those  that  come  lazily  and 
warmly,  without  your  seeking?  To  whichever  class  you 
belong,  you  must  come  with  me  into  Winter's  innermost 
stronghold.  I  bid  you ;  and,  shiver  and  shake  as  you  may, 
you  must  not  say,  "No."  Forget  June — forget  its  hot, 
faint  airs  and  thronged  red  roses ;  remember  only  Decem- 
ber, with  all  his  cold,  white  train.  It  is  Christmas:  a 
season  which,  if  one  took  one's  idea  of  it  from  Dickens's 
books,  would  seem  to  be  a  season  of  universal  jollity,  of 
widely-diffused  sausages  and  mince-pies,  of  great  crackling 


106  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

fires  and  hard,  bright  frost;  when  every  one  is  gladder 
than  his  wont ;  when  each  man  greets  his  neighbor  lov- 
ingly, and  godly  charity  and  pious  mirth  shine  out  of  each 
happy  eye ;  a  season  which,  if  one  judge  it  by  one's  own  ex- 
perience, is  for  the  most  part  mildly  drizzling — a  season  of 
bills  and  influenza  triumphant ;  when  one  reckons  up  the 
empty  chairs  by  the  fireside,  and,  counting  over  one's  losses 
in  love  and  joy,  finds  smiling — much  more,  broad  laughter 
— but  difficult.  Into  an  English  country-house  you  must 
come :  till  to-morrow  you  must  wrait  to  see  whether  it  is 
Gothic,  Tudor,  Ionic,  Inigo  Jones-ish,  or  a  happy  medley 
of  these  styles ;  for  now  the  black  night-winds  are  feeling 
blindly  round  it,  and  the  harsh  rains  are  lashing  its  front. 
It  is  dressing-time ;  but  who  can  bear  to  tear  themselves 
away  from  this  hall-fire — hall  that  is  the  liveablest  room  in 
the  house,  with  its  floor  spread  with  warm  beasts'-skins, 
its  low,  wide  hearth,  its  thick-draped  windows,  its  round 
table  groaning  under  new  novels — novels  proper  and  novels 
improper — novels  ritualistic  and  novels  evangelical ;  novels 
that  are  milk  for  babes,  and  novels  that  are  almost  too 
strong  meat  for  men.  There  are  no  gone  faces  to  sadden 
this  hearth ;  the  only  face  that  is  gone  would  cause  con- 
siderable consternation  were  it  to  come  back  again.  On 
the  deep,  woolly  hearth-rug  Jemima  is  sitting,  with  a  book 
in  her  hand ;  she  is  reading  a  pretty  love-story  by  the  fire- 
light. Opposite  to  her,  in  a  low  chair,  sits  (or  rather  lies) 
her  sister  Sylvia,  the  widowed  house-mistress.  Her  little 
chin  is  buried  in  her  chest ;  the  large  jet-beetles  in  her  ears 
bob  gently  to  and  fro  as  she  nods,  nods ;  on  her  lap  rests 
a  pug-dog.  His  face  is  blacker  than  the  raven's  wing ;  his 
nose  turns  mightily  upward;  his  tail  curls  tightly  twice 
to  the  left;  his  toes  turn  out,  and  his  tongue  protrudes, 
like  a  pink  rose-leaf;  if  he  squinted,  he  would  be  perfect; 
but,  alas !  life  is  made  up  of  "  ifs."  A  little  farther  off, 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  167 

two  young  people  are  playing  at  bezique — Lenore  and 
Scrope.  Yes,  though  it  is  neither  Brittany  nor  June, 
Scrope  is  here.  Twining  round  his  legs,  scaling  Jemima's 
back,  playfully  trying  to  poke  their  fingers  into  their 
mother's  shut  eyes,  running  heavily  on  their  heels,  plung- 
ing, wrangling,  with  all  the  innocent  vivacity  of  childhood, 
are  two  enfants  terribles — terrible  as  only  the  healthy 
male  young  of  the  human  species  can  be — little  red-faced 
scourges  to  society.  If  parents,  when  they  give  their 
children  smart  names,  would  but  reflect  on  the  number  of 
ugly-named  men  whom  they  may  possibly,  nay  probably, 
espouse!  Why  did  not  Sylvia's  parents?  Sylvia  Prod- 
gers! 

"  Is  these  children's  bedtime  never  coming  ?  "  cries  Le- 
nore, impatiently,  as  she  begins  a  fresh  deal.  "  It  seems 
to  me  that  that  blessed  epoch  moves  farther  and  farther  on 
every  night. — Tommy,  dear,  are  not  you  sleepy  ?  I  will 
give  you  sixpence  if  you  will  say  you  are." 

"  Mother  said  w^e  might  stay  up  to  see  Uncle  Paul — did 
not  she,  Bobby?"  replies  Tommy,  triumphantly. 

He  has  just  succeeded  in  tying  himself  in  a  true-love 
knot  round  Mr.  Scrope's  neck ;  his  feet  are  beating  a  playful 
yet  painful  tattoo  on  that  young  gentleman's  ribs. 

"  Uncle  Paul,  indeed ! "  cries  Scrope,  indignantly.  "  "Who 
taught  you  to  give  people  brevet  rank  ?  I  say,  young  man, 
fair  play  is  a  jewel.  Let  me  get  on  your  back,  and  ham- 
mer your  ribs  a  bit  now." 

"  Stay  up  to  see  Uncle  Paul ! "  echoes  Bobby,  who,  not 
being  very  rich  in  ideas  himself,  draws  chiefly  on  his  elder 
brother's  stock. 

"  How  pleased  he'll  be  ! "  says  Scrope,  laughing.  "  I 
think  I  see  the  benignant  smile  with  which  he  will  greet 
you  when  you  run  at  his  legs  and  kick  his  shins,  as  you  are 
in  the  pleasant  habit  of  doing  mine." 


168  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  He  will  not  mind,"  says  Lenore,  feeling  impelled  to 
stand  up  for  her  lover's  amiability.  "  I  hate  children,  my- 
self, as  you  know — loathe  them,  in  fact.  They  seem  to  me 
to  combine  all  the  worst  qualities  of  both  sexes,  with  no 
redeeming  points  of  their  own — egotism  more  than  man's, 
garrulity  more  than  woman's.  But  I  always  like  a  man  to 
be  fond  of  them ;  there  is  always  some  good  about  a  man 
that  is." 

"  I  wish  they  were  not  quite  so  fond  of  me,"  says  Scrope, 
groaning,  as  he  takes  Tommy  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck,  and 
deposits  him  in  a  vociferous  heap  on  the  floor. 

"  Uncle  Paul  is  going  to  be  Aunty  Lenore's  'usband — 
Morris  says  so  "  (Morris  is  the  butler),  remarks  Bobby,  from 
the  background,  with  that  utter  contempt  for  the  letter  h 
that  one  often  notices  in  little  children. 

"  Quite  right,  Bobby,"  answers  Lenore,  gayly ;  "  Morris 
never  said  a  truer  word  in  all  his  life." 

Scrope  makes  no  comment ;  he  only  throws  your  kings 
viciously  on  the  table,  and  announces,  in  a  sulky  voice,  the 
unanswerable  proposition  that  eighty  and  seventy  make  one 
hundred  and  fifty. 

"  I  wish  Aunty  Lenore's  'usband  would  come,"  says  Le- 
nore, laughing,  but  rather  anxiously.  "  I  feel  as  if  it  were 
getting  very  late. — Jemima,  you  can  see  the  clock ;  what 
time  is  it  ?  " 

Jemima  starts,  drops  her  book,  and  stretches  her  neck. 

"  Five  minutes  past  seven." 

"  He  ought  to  be  here,  ought  not  he  ?  "  says  the  girl, 
wistfully,  playing  a  queen  of  trumps  that  she  has  been  care- 
fully hoarding  for  the  last  ten  minutes,  and  looking  inquir- 
ingly across  at  her  antagonist. 

"  Perhaps  he  has  thought  better  of  it,"  suggests  Scrope, 
in  his  slow,  lazy  way.  "  Perhaps  his  pretty  cousin  has  per- 
suaded him  to  stay  and  eat  his  plum-pudding  with  her." 


WHAT  TEE  AUTHOR  SATS.  169 

"  He  has  not  a  pretty  cousin,"  answers  Lenore,  quickly, 
and  quite  unaware  that  she  has  double  bezique  in  her  hand. 

"  He  has,  though,"  replied  Scrope,  carelessly,  looking 
doubtfully  over  his  cards,  to  see  which  he  can  best  spare. 
"  He  may  have  kept  it  dark ;  but  he  has.  I  saw  her  last 
month,  when  I  went  down  there  for  covert-shooting.  She 
had  on  a  gray  cloak  down  to  her  heels,  and  a  long  poke- 
bonnet,  like  a  tunnel ;  but  I  looked  down  the  tunnel,  and 
saw  a  pretty  little  prim  face  at  the  end  of  it." 

"  She  was  a  Sister  of  Mercy,  no  doubt." 

"  Only  a  lay  one." 

"  I  wish  he  would  come,"  repeats  poor  Lenore,  feverish- 
ly.— "  Children,  run  to  the  window,  and  listen  if  you  can 
hear  a  carriage." 

"  You  must  remember  it  is  Christmas-Eve,"  says  Je- 
mima, reassuringly ;  "  the  trains  are  often  three  hours 
late." 

"  Everybody  drunk,  and  collisions  imminently  prob- 
able," remarks  Scrope,  pleasantly. 

Lenore  flings  down  her  cards  on  the  table,  and,  running 
to  the  window,  disappears  behind  the  heavy  red  curtains 
with  the  children. 

"  My  word,  Bobby,  is  not  it  raining  ?  " 

"He  is  not  to  get  up  upon  the  window-seat,  is  he, 
Aunty  Lenore  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  may ;  mayn't  I  ?  " 

"  Aunty  Lenore,  is  not  he  a  naughty  boy  ?  " 

"  You  shall  not  get  up  here ;  I  won't  have  you ! " 

A  sound  of  hustling — a  yah — a  howl.  Scrope  to  the 
rescue. 

Unmindful  of  her  nephews,  Lenore  is  standing  with  her 

nose  flattened  against  the  pane,  staring  out  into  the  rough 

night.     The  clouds  are  breaking,  and,  from  underneath  one 

heavy  black  one,  the  moon  is  pushing  and  pouring  wet  sil- 

8 


170  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

ver ;  it  streams  on  Lenore's  eager  face,  making  it  look  ex- 
tra pale.  The  children  tumble  back,  over  one  another, 
again  into  the  warm  room :  in  the  dark  recess  behind  the 
curtain  the  young  man  and  the  young  woman  stand  alone. 

"  Do  you  think  there  has  been  an  accident  f  "  asks  the 
girl,  in  a  low  voice,  turning  to  him  her  pretty  tragic  face. 
"  Do  you  think  any  thing  has  happened  to  him  ?  " 

"  I  am  certain  nothing  has,"  answers  the  young  fellow, 
bitterly,  turning  on  his  heel. 

In  ten  minutes  more,  doubt  as  to  Mr.  Le'Mesurier's  fate 
is  at  an  end,  and  Lenore's  nose  may  recover  from  the 
pressure  it  has  suffered  against  the  window-pane  as  soon 
as  it  can.  Through  the  bellowing  wind  and  the  fighting 
rain  carriage-wheels  are  plainly  heard,  and  a  bell's  sharp 
"  Ting,  ting  "  vibrates  through  the  house. 

"  How  about  the  pretty  cousin  and  the  poke-bonnet  ?  " 
cries  the  girl,  her  face  all  alight,  flying  triumphantly  past 
Scrope  into  the  outer  hall. 

"  Wait  a  bit ;  perhaps  he  has  brought  her  with  him." 

But  Lenore  is  out  of  hearing. 

"  Why  could  not  she  stay  here  ?  "  says  the  young  man, 
advancing,  grumbling  and  shivering,  to  the  fire.  "  It  would 
not  have  robbed  her  of  two  seconds  of  his  precious  society. 
Why  do  not  they  come  in  ?  "  (walking  impatiently  to  and 
fro).  "  I  suppose  they  are  falling  into  each  other's  arms 
under  the  chaperonage  of  Morris.  Bah  !  I  hate  lovers !  Do 
not  you,  Miss  Herrick  ?  " 

"  I  never  had  one,  so  I  cannot  say." 

The  bell  has  awaked  both  Sylvia  and  her  dog.  The 
latter  tumbles  down,  in  a  fat,  fawn-colored  ball,  from  his 
mistress's  lap.  The  former  stands  sleepily  up,  and  mechan- 
ically puts  her  hand  to  her  head,  to  feel  for  her  plaits. 

"  Is  he  come  ? "  she  says,  in  &  little  plaintive  voice. 
"  I  wish  people  would  not  come  so  suddenly — they  make 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  171 

one's  heart  beat  so.  Jemima"  (standing  on  tiptoe,  and 
trying  to  get  a  glimpse  of  her  little  head,  and  of  the  moun- 
tainous hair-erection  that  makes  it  look  top-heavy,  in  the 
looking-glass  over  the  high  old  chimney-piece) — "  Jemima, 
does  iQjfrisette  show  ?  Do  I  look  a  great  object  ?  What 
will  he  think  of  me  ?  " 

"  It  does  show  a  good  deal,"  answers  Jemima,  candidly. 
"But  do  not  be  uneasy;  he  will  not  see  you — he  never, 
sees  anybody  when  Lenore  is  by ;  ten  to  one  he  will  forget 
to  say  '  How  do  you  do  ? '  to  you  !  " 

"  What — to  the  mistress  of  the  house !  "  cries  Scrope, 
with  his  eyes  eagerly  fixed  on  the  door. 

"  I  hope  he  will  not  expect  one  to  be  very  affectionate," 
continues  Sylvia,  simpering ;  too  entirely  taken  up  with 
herself  to  hear  or  heed  Jemima's  remark,  and  carefully 
putting 'down  the  little  Gainsborough  fringe  of  hair  on 
her  forehead.  "I  suppose  I  am  peculiar,  but  I  always 
feel  so  reserved  with  strangers ;  if  he  is  hurt  by  my  cold- 
ness, you  must  explain  to  him  that  it  is  my  way" 

"  I  do  not  think  there  will  be  any  need,"  replies  Je- 
mima, dryly. 

As  she  speaks,  the  door  opens,  and  the  betrothed  pair 
make  their  triumphal  entry.  To  Lenore,  at  least,  it  is 
such :  her  two  hands  are  clasped  on  her  lover's  arm,  and 
her  glad,  proud  eyes  are  fixed  on  his  face.  It  is  not  much 
of  a  face  to  be  proud  of,  after  all ;  but,  such  as  it  is,  sisters, 
nephews,  friend,  butler,  footmen,  are  quite  welcome  to  see 
her  radiant  happiness  in  again  looking  upon  it.  Paul  is 
happy,  too — inly,  heartfeltly  happy  ;  but,  coming  in  straight 
from  a  long  December  railway  journey,  only  just  delivered 
from  the  wind's  cuffs  and  the  rain's  stings,  shivering  and 
shy,  it  is  difficult  to  look  radiant.  Paul's  shyness,  like  that 
of  many  other  men's,  takes  the  form  of  a  peculiar  ferocity 
of  aspect.  Sylvia  hns  arranged  herself  in  a  pretty  pose ; 


172  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

she  has  disposed  all  her  neat  little  features  symmetrically 
into  a  smile  of  welcome :  Bobby  and  Tommy,  awed  into 
momentary  silence  and  stillness  by  the  stranger's  advent, 
are  filially  grouped  around  her. 

"  So  happy  to  make  your  acquaintance  !  "  she  murmurs, 
extending  her  hand,  and  then  dropping  her  eyes  bashfully. 
— "  Darlings,  give  Mr.  Le  Mesurier  a  nice  kiss  !  " 

But  the  darlings — whose  mauvaise  lionte,  on  first  in- 
troduction, is  only  to  be  exceeded  by  their  painful  intimacy 
at  a  later  stage  of  acquaintance — burrow  their  coy  heads  in 
their  mother's  skirts  and  decline.  As  kissing  is  with  them 
a  damp  and  open-mouthed  process,  perhaps  their  future 
uncle  has  the  less  reason  to  deplore  their  refusal.  He 
shakes  hands  with  them  all — unknown  sister-in-law,  known 
sister-in-law,  nephews-m-law,  friend  (with  the  last,  perhaps, 
with  less  warmth  than  the  rest) ;  and  then  they  stand 
round  the  fire,  and  say  clever  things  about  the  rain  and 
the  wind,  and  the  train  and  the  dog-cart.  These  do  not 
last  long,  however,  and  when  they  are  finished  a  rather 
constrained  silence  falls. 

"  So  some  one  has  been  playing  bezique,  I  see  ? "  re- 
marks Paul,  with  an  effort  to  break  through  the  silence  and 
his  own  shyness  at  the  same  time. 

"  Yes,"  answers  Lenore,  laconically,  not  thinking  it  ne- 
cessary to  explain  who  the  players  were. 

"  It  is  Mr.  Scrope  and  Aunty  Lenore,"  cries  Tommy, 
officiously  ;  "  they  play  every  night,  and  one  night  Bobby 
spilt  the  cards  all  over  the  floor.  My  word  !  did  not  Aunty 
Lenore  smack  him  !  " 

"Play  every  night!"  echoes  Paul,  glancing  quickly 
from  his  love  to  Mr.  Scrope,  and  back  again ;  "  I  had  no 
idea  that  you  had  been  here  any  time,  Scrope  ?  " 

"About  the  inside  of  a  week,  I  suppose,"  answers 
Scrope,  nonchalantly. 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  173 

"  Why,  you  knew  he  had  !  "  cries  Leiiore,  reproachfully. 
"  I  told  you  so,  ages  ago. — It  shows  "  (turning  to  the  com- 
pany, with  a  rather  nervous  laugh)  "  how  attentively  he 
reads  my  letters,  does  not  it  ?  " 

"  Her  hand  is  difficult,  is  not  it  ?  "  says  Sylvia,  sweetly. 
"  We  all  write  illegible  hands ;  I  am  shockingly  scolded 
about  mine." 

Mr.  Le  Mesurier  does  not  seem  very  much  interested  as 
to  whether  his  hostess's  hand  is  decipherable  or  not ;  he 
walks  to  the  card-table,  and  begins  to  fiddle  with  the 
bezique  markers. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  any  one  else  thinks,"  says  Jemi- 
ma, depositing  her  novel  on  the  table  ;  "  but  I  think  that 
it  is  quite  time  to  prepare  for  the  great  event  of  the  day. — 
Mr.  Scrope,  will  you  light  my  candle  ?  " 

They  all  troop  off  up  the  lit  stairs — women,  children, 
man ;  Lenore  and  Paul  are  left  for  the  first  time  alone.  In 
a  moment  they  are  together,  standing  on  the  hearth-rug  : 
her  face  is  between  his  two  cold  hands,  and  he  is  looking 
down  on  it,  with  an  expression  a  little  troubled,  perhaps, 
but  as  truly,  heartily  loving,  as  even  she  could  desire. 

"  Lenore,  have  you  been  a  good  girl  ?  " 

"  Paul,  have  you  been  a  good  man  ?  " 

"  Middling,  for  that  "  (sighing),  "  but  I  think  I  have 
tried." 

"  And  I  think  I  have  tried  to  be  a  good  girl,  but  I  am 
not  at  all  sure  that  I  have  succeeded." 

"And  Scrope?" 

"  Has  lie  been  a  good  man,  do  you  mean  ?  I  really  can- 
not say." 

"You  know  I  do  not  mean  that,  Lenore;  but  what 
about  him  ?  " 

"  Nothing  about  him." 

"  Do  you  think  him  as  much  of  a  child  as  you  did  that 
day  at  St.-Malo?" 


174  "  GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!  " 

"  No,  I  do  not ;  I  think  he  is  rather  precocious." 

Soup  is  apt  to  make  the  nose  red,  but  after  a  long  win- 
ter journey  it  is  certainly  solacing.  It  does  not  matter 
whether  Paul  has  a  red  nose  or  no,  as  he  has  no  beauty  to 
spoil ;  nor  (owing,  I  suppose,  to  the  deeper-coloredness  of 
their  whole  faces)  is  a  red  nose  as  absolutely  fatal  to  men's 
loveliness  as  to  women's.  Sylvia's  sherry  is  good ;  it  is 
her  champagne.  Paul  does  not  feel  half  so  shy,  or  half  so 
cold,  as  he  did  an  hour  ago.  Why  should  he  be,  either, 
sitting  near  this  kingly  Christmas  fire,  that  one  sees,  with- 
out feeling  it  oppressively,  through  the  glass  screen,  and 
among  all  these  kindly,  smiling  faces  ?  Sylvia  smiles  on 
principle,  because  her  teeth  are  white  and  even.  Jemima 
smiles  from  habit :  in  this  world  it  is  politer  to  smile  than 
to  look  grave.  Scrope  smiles,  because  dinner  is  involun- 
tarily cheering,  even  when  one's  heart  is  sick,  and  angry  to 
the  pitch  of  longing  to  knock  anybody  down.  And  Le- 
nore — neither  soup  nor  sherry  has  power  to  add  to  her  per- 
fect well-being.  Indeed,  she  cannot  eat.  She  has  had 
plenty  of  time  to  eat  and  sleep,  and  go  through  all  the 
dull  necessities  of  life,  during  the  last  void  six  months. 
Lenore  is  absolutely  happy  !  It  is  something  to  have  been 
able  once  to  say  that ;  but  why  do  not  peole  know  when 
to  die  ?  Why  does  life  insist  on  staying  on : 

"  Like  some  poor,  nigh-related  guest, 
That  may  not  rudely  be  dismissed  ; 
But  hath  outstayed  his  welcome  while, 
And  tells  the  jest  without  the  smile  ?  " 

"  So  your  father  has  been  having  the  gout  ?  "  says  the 
girl,  considerately  waiting  till  her  lover  has  swallowed  his 
last  mouthful  of  soup,  and  not  "  starving  her  man,"  as  the 
Saturday,  in  the  long-gone  days  when  it  used  to  write 
pleasant  articles,  once  happily  worded  it. 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  175 

«  Yes." 

"  Quite  safely  and  long-livedty,  I  suppose  ?  " 

Paul  looks  rather  shocked;  he  has  not  yet  had  time  to 
get  acclimatized  to  Lenore's  startling  candors  of  expression. 

"  I  hope  so." 

"Is  he  very  cross?" 

"Very." 

"  Gout  is  apt  to  sour  the  sweetest  temper,  as  no  one 
has  better  reason  to  know  than  I,"  said  Sylvia,  with  a  sigh, 
and  a  downward  glance  at  her  dress. 

Sylvia's  grief  has  passed  out  of  the  capped  and  craped 
stage ;  it  has  declined  into  the  more  supportable  phase  of 
colored  silks  and  white  tuckers. 

"  Would  he  like  me  to  go  and  nurse  him  ?  "  asks  Le- 
nore,  laughing,  yet  eagerly  awaiting  the  answer. 

"  I  do  not  know  about  that,"  says  Paul,  laughing  too ; 
"  he  has  already  three  lone  spirits  for  his  ministers.  I  do 
not  think  even  he  could  find  work  for  a  fourth." 

"  Three ! "  cries  the  girl,  growing  pink,  with  a  faint 
suspicion.  "  Why,  Paul,  I  thought  you  had  only  two  sisters !" 

"  Suppose  I  have  a  cousin,  ?  " 

Lenore  involuntarily  glances  across  at  Scrope ;  he  is 
smiling  malevolently,  and  reciting  half  under  his  breath : 

"  I  have  brothers  and  sisters  by  the  dozen,  Torn  ; 
But  a  cousin  is  a  different  thing." 

Nothing  has  happened ;  the  fire  still  radiates  warmth 
from  its  deep,  red  heart.  The  footmen  are  carrying  round 
sweetbreads,  and  fricandeaus,  and  timbales,  and  all  man- 
ner of  nice  things.  Sylvia  and  Jemima  are  still  smiling ; 
but  yet — but  yet — Lenore  has  made  one  step,  a  very  little 
step  indeed ;  but  still  a  step,  down  from  her  pinnacle  of 
heaven-like  bliss. 


176  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  I  quite  like  him,  Lenore — I  do,  really.  I  am  not  jok- 
ing," says  Sylvia,  that  evening,  patronizingly,  as  the  three 
ladies  stand  round  the  drawing-room  fire  ;  "  and  you  know 
I  am  not  one  to  say  what  I  do  not  mean.  If  I  have  a  fault 
in  that  way,  it  is  being  too  sincere.  I  had  my  misgivings, 
but  he  really  is  quite  nice  ;  but — but — what  an  odd  way 
he  has  of  staring  at  one !  " 

"I  never  remarked  it." 

"  I  thought  he  looked  rather  queer  when  I  called  Char- 
ley Scrope  '  Charlie,'  at  dinner,"  continues  Sylvia,  sinking 
down  upon  the  fender-stool,  and  carefully  disposing  her 
skirts  about  her.  "  You  must  explain  to  him  that  poor, 
dear  Charlie  is  one  of  my  oldest  friends.  I  hate  people  to 
get  that  sort  of  idea  about  one  into  their  heads,  don't  you 
know  ?  " 


CHAPTER  II. 

WHAT     THE     AUTHOR     SAYS. 

* 

"  Babe  Jesus  lay  on  Mary's  lap, 

The  sun  shone  in  His  hair ; 

And  so  it  was  she  saw,  mayhap, 

The  crown  already  there. 

"  For  she  sang,  '  Sleep  on,  my  little  King, 

Bad  Herod  dares  not  come ; 
Before  Thee  sleeping,  holy  thing, 
Wild  winds  would  soon  be  dumb. 

"  '  I  kiss  Thy  hands,  I  kiss  Thy  feet, 

My  King,  so  long  desired ; 
Thy  hands  shall  ne'er  be  soiled,  my  sweet, 
Thy  feet  shall  ne'er  be  tired. 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  177 

"  '  For  Thou  art  King  of  Men,  my  Son ! 

Thy  crown,  I  see  it  plain ; 
And  men  shall  worship  Thee,  every  one, 
And  cry  Glory  !  Amen  ! ' 

"  Babe  Jesus  opened  His  eyes  so  wide, 

At  Mary  looked  her  Lord  ; 
And  Mary  stinted  her  song  and  sighed, 
Babe  Jesus  said  never  a  word." 

NOBODY  sings  those  old  carols  nowadays;  but  to  me 
they  have  a  heartier,  truer  ring  than  any  of  the  new-fangled 
Christmas  psalmodies.  Yes — it  is  Christmas-Day,  though 
there  is  neither  snow,  nor  frost,  nor  ice;  only  stripped 
trees,  a  chilly  little  sun,  and  mild  west-wind.  Everybody 
has  been  to  church,  has  prayed,  has  crossed  his  arms,  and 
yawned  ;  has  stared  at  the  hollied  font  and  the  ivied  pillars, 
at  the  blue  and  red  and  gold  texts,  that  tell  us  the  old, 
old  news,  that  "  Christ  is  born  ;  "  has  thought  of  his  earthly 
accounts,  and  of  his  account  with  High  God,  as  the  bent 
of  his  mind  inclines  him.  Tommy  has  dropped  his  moth- 
er's smart  prayer-book  into  a  puddle  on  his  way  to  church ; 
has  been  hoisted  up  on  the  seat,  on  his  arrival  there ;  has 
made  faces  at  a  little  girl  in  the  next  pew ;  has  broken  into 
audible  laughter,  during  the  Second  Lesson,  at  something 
that  tickled  his  fancy  in  one  of  the  footmen's  appearance  ; 
has  been  privately  admonished  that  expulsion  from  church, 
and  deprivation  of  pudding,  will  be  the  consequence  of 
continued  mirth  ;  has  therefore  lapsed  into  tearful  gravity, 
and  finally  into  sleep.  Now  they  are  all  at  home  again ; 
Lenore  and  Paul  have  succeeded  in  the  object — always  a 
primary  one  with  lovers — of  eluding  every  one  else,  and 
are  dawdling  about  in  the  conservatory  till  the  luncheon- 
gong  shall  summon  them  back  into  the  control  of  the  pub- 
lic eye.  The  proud  camellias,  the  Roman  matrons — Cor- 
nelias and  Lucretias — of  the  flower  nation,  hide  no  ears 


ITS  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

under  their  sleek,  dark  leaves ;  the  jonquils,  whose  gold 
throats  are  so  full  of  sweets,  tell  no  tales. 

"  I  never  saw  you  in  a  frock-coat  and  tall  hat  before," 
says  Lenore,  playfully  surveying  her  lover  from  head  to 
heel ;  "  turn  slowly  round,  that  I  may  judge  of  the  tout 
ensemble" 

"  Nor  I  you  in  a  bonnet." 

"  You  have  seen  me,  however,  in  a  cap"  returns  Le- 
nore, with  a  mischievous  smile. 

Paul  looks  a  little  grave. 

"  Do  not  abuse  it !  "  cries  the  girl,  laughing.  "  With 
all  its  misdemeanors,  it  was  a  blessed  cap,  and  I  have  a  good 
mind  to  be  married  in  it." 

"  Lenore,  I  hate  that  episode !  " 

"  Do  you  ?  Well,  then,  we  will  dig  a  hole  and  bury  it ; 
all  the  same  "  (sighing  a  little),  "  though  I  am  a  great  deal 
gooder  than  I  was,  I  am  not  yet  good  enough  to  regret  it." 

"  Are  you  *  gooder '  than  you  were  ?  "  (with  a  fond,  but 
rather  incredulous  smile). 

"  Do  not  you  think  so  ? "  she  asks,  eagerly.  "  Have 
not  you  remarked  it  ?  Do  not  you  think  I  am  improved  ?  " 

Paul  is  a  little  puzzled ;  he  has  not  been  here  four-and- 
twenty  hours  yet ;  but,  as  far  as  he  sees,  she  is  the  very 
identical  Lenore  that  he  left  sobbing  on  the  deck  of  the  St.- 
Malo  steamer.  She  is  not  sobbing  now,  and,  instead  of  a 
water-proof,  she  is  clad  in  a  smart  winter-gown  and  a  bon- 
net with  a  feather ;  but,  for  the  rest,  he  sees  no  change. 

"  Have  you  heard  me  say  any  thing  fast  ?  "  asks  Lenore, 
growing  serious. 

"  No." 

"Or  slang?" 

"No." 

"  Or  seen  me  get  into  one  of  my  rages  ?  " 

"  No,"  answers  Paul,  half  laughing  at  the  idea  of  the 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  179 

self-control  implied  by  keeping  out  of  a  rage  during  eight- 
teen  hours,  of  which  seven  were  spent  in  sleep,  and  the 
rest  in  the  company  of  a  favored  and  adoring  lover. 

"  Have  you  heard  me  snub  Jemima  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Or  seen  me  box  Tommy's  ears  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Well,  then,  I  must  be  improved,"  cries  Lenore,  tri- 
umphantly ;  "  for  I  can  tell  you,  you  could  not  have  spent 
an  hour  in  my  society  this  time  last  year  without  seeing 
me  go  through  some  of  those  manoeuvres." 

"  Well,  then,  you  are  improved,"  answers  Paul,  smiling, 
and  smoothing  her  shining  hair ;  "  and  we  all  know  there 
was  room  for  it,  do  not  we  ?  " 

"  Plenty,"  replies  Lenore,  briefly. 

"  All  the  same,  I  did  not  think  you  needed  much  mend- 
ing that  last  day  at  St.-Malo,"  says  Paul,  indulging  himself 
in  looking  as  thoroughly  sentimental  as  even  Scrope  could 
have  done,  now  that  he  is  sure  that  nobody  is  by. 

"  You  prefer  me  with  my  nose  swollen  and  my  eyes 
bunged  up,  do  you  ?  "  asks  Lenore,  gayly.  "  Good  Hea- 
vens ! "  (growing  quite  grave),  "  how  I  hated  everybody 
and  every  thing  that  day — Chateaubriand  and  his  tomb, 
and  the  ramparts,  and  the  old  houses,  and  the  steamer,  and 
the  stoker,  and  Jemima !  Do  you  know,  I  cried  all  the 
way  back  to  Dinan;  I  do  not  think  I  stopped  for  one 
minute,  and  Jemima  and  Mr.  Scrope  sat  on  two  camp- 
stools  opposite  to  me.  They  did  not  look  at  the  view,  and 
they  did  not  look  at  the  other  people ;  they  kept  staring 
at  me  the  whole  way.  What  possessed  them  I  cannot 
think." 

"  I  wish  I  had  been  there,"  says  Mr.  Le  Mesurier,  look- 
ing rather  vicious ;  "  I  would  have  turned  Jemima's  camp- 
stool  straight  round,  and  kicked  Scrope  overboard." 


180   t  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  And  what  would  he  have  been  doing  meanwhile  ?  " 
asks  Lenore,  archly.  "  Poor  Mr.  Scrope !  how  bored  I  was 
by  him  those  first  few  days  after  you  went !  " 

"  The  first  days  !  "  echoes  Paul,  suspiciously.  "  You 
were  not  bored  by  him  afterward,  then  ?  " 

She  does  not  answer  immediately,  and  he  has  to  re- 
peat his  question.  Then  she  speaks  with  perhaps  a  shade 
of  unwillingness: 

"  Well,  no ;  I  do  not  think  I  was.  One  gets  used  to 
things,  you  know,  and  he  is  not  a  bad  boy,  after  all,  and — 
and — and  he  was  almost  as  useful  as  Frederick  himself  in 
running  errands." 

"  And  expected  the  same'  reward,  I  suppose  ?  "  says 
Paul,  with  a  sneer. 

"  I  have  not  a  notion  what  he  expected,"  retorts  Lenore. 
beginning  to  look  rather  rebellious,  and  to  hum  a  tune. 

"  Lenore !  Lenore  ! "  (the  sneer  disappearing  as  he 
snatches  her  hands,  and  gazes  with  anxious,  grieved  love 
into  her  face),  "  what  were  the  very  last  words  I  said  to 
you  at  St.-Malo  ?— do  you  remember  ?  " 

"  Perfectly ;  they  were,  '  God  bless  you,  darling  !  "  she 
answers,  speaking  softly,  her  lips  framing  -the  words  lov- 
ingly, as  if  they  were  dear  to  them. 

"  Ay,  but  the  words  just  before  them  ?  " 

"  They  were  ugly,  stupid,  unnecessary,  jealous  words  ! 
I  do  not  remember  them,"  says  she,  impatiently,  snatching 
away  her  hands,  and  not  perceiving  that  the  first  half  of 
her  sentence  contradicted  the  last. 

"  Ugly,  stupid,  and  jealous,  they  may  'have  been,"  says 
Paul,  with  forced  calmness,  "  as  many  of  my  words,  I  dare 
say,  are  ;  but  were  they  unnecessary  ?  " 

"  What  were  they  ? "  (very  impatiently).  "  Let  us 
hear  them,  and  have  done  with  them ! " 

"  They  were,  *  Do  not  flirt  with  Scrope  ! '  " 


WHAT  TEE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  181 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Whatever  else  you  do,  I  know  you  do  not  tell  lies  : 
did  you  flirt  with  him  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  soul,  I  do  not  know ! "  answers  Lenore,  in- 
genuously. 

"  I  would  have  given  you  carte  blanche  to  bully  Jemima 
and  maltreat  your  nephews,"  says  Paul,  magnanimously. 
"  What  do  little  flaws  in  the  temper  matter  compared  to — 
O  Lenore  !  to  lower  yourself  and  me  by  flirting  with  that 
boy,  my  own  friend,  whom  I  myself  had  introduced  to  you, 
and  after  all  I  had  said  to  you  ? — Why  do  not  you  turn 
your  face  this  way  ?  Good  God !  is  it  possible  that  you  are 
blushing  about  him  ?  " 

"  I  am  blushing  with  rage  at  being  put  through  such 
a  degrading  catechism  !  "  answers  Lenore,  coloring  scarlet, 
and  flashing  indignantly  at  her  lover. 

'•''Did  you  flirt  with  him?"  repeats  Paul,  sternly;  his 
lips  look  thin  and  sulky,  and  his  eyes  also  sparkle  coldly. 

"  Is  sitting  by  the  hour  in  a  person's  company,  wonder- 
ing when  he  means  to  go,  and  yawning  till  the  tears  come 
into  your  eyes,  flirting  with  him  ?  "  asks  the  girl  excitedly, 
her  mouth  beginning  to  twitch,  and  the  tears  to  gather  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Certainly  not." 

"  Is  thinking  a  man  very  good-looking,  and  wishing 
that  he  would  fall  in  love  with  your  elder  sister,  and  being 
sure  that  he  will  not,  flirting  with  him  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not." 

"  Is  going  endless  expeditions  to  places  that  you  have 
not  the  heart  to  look  at,  in  a  man's  «company,  letting  him 
spread  his  overcoat  on  the  grass  for  you  to  sit  upon,  and 
carry  your  prayer-book  to  church  and  forgetting  to  say, 
<  Thank  you '  —flirting  with  him  ?  " 

"No— o." 


182  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  Is  "  (this  last  query  comes  much  less  trippingly  and 
more  reluctantly  from  her  tongue  than  the  former  one) — 
"  is  seeing  that  a  man  is  going  to  make  a  fool  of  himself 
about  you,  and  being  so  shamefully  fond  of  admiration  as 
not  to  do  every  thing  in  your  power  to  stop  him — is  that 
flirting  with  him  ?  " 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  replies  Paul,  roughly,  all  his  brown 
face  turning  white  in  his  deep  anger. 

"  Then  I  did  flirt  with  him  ! "  cries  Lenore,  bursting 
into  a  passion  of  penitent  tears,  and  throwing  herself  into 
her  lover's  arms,  which  neither  expect  nor  are  willing  to 
receive  her. 

"  You  did — did  you  ?  "  says  Paul,  cuttingly,  not  making 
any  attempt  to  press  her  to  his  heart,  or  otherwise  caress 
her,  but,  on  the  contrary,  endeavoring  to  restore  her  to  the 
perpendicular,  which  she  has  abandoned  in  his  favor. 
"  And  you  can  stand  there  smiling,  and  tell  me  so  ?  " 

"  Not  much  smiling  about  it,  I  think,"  replies  the  girl, 
ruefully,  wiping  her  eyes ;  then,  more  tartly :  "  Why  did 
you  go  on  asking  me,  if  you  did  not  want  to  be  answered  ? 
O  Paul ! — Paul !  "  catching  his  hand  and  holding  it,  "  I  am 
not  much  of  a  person ;  long  ago  I  told  you  that,  and  you 
would  not  believe  me.  Ah  !  you  see  it  now — but  don't — 
dorfl  be  too  hard  upon  me  !  I  have  not  been,  like  your 
sisters,  pent  all  my  life  in  a  good,  steady,  stagnant  English 
home,  where  never  a  man  dare  look  over  the  park-palings. 
All  my  life  I  have  been  a  Bohemian,  as  I  told  you  almost 
the  first  time  that  we  met — up  and  down  the  world,  here, 
there,  and  everywhere,  and  I  have  always  had  some  man 
dangling  after  me.  J  did  not  care  for  them,  Heaven  knows, 
and  I  dare  say  they  did  not  care  for  me ;  but  they  were 
useful,  and  pleasant,  and  made  the  time  pass — 

"  As  Scrope  no  doubt  did  !  I  dare  say,"  (looking  very 
ugly  and  sardonic,  for  a  sneer  deforms  the  beautifullest 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  183 

face,  much  more  an  unhandsome  one)  "  that  you  did  not 
find  the  days  between  June  and  December  so  endless  as 
you  expected ;  perhaps  you  did  not  buy  that  pop-gun,  after 
all?" 

"  No,  I  did  not,"  says  Lenore,  her  wrath  bursting  out 
into  a  blaze.  "  Paul,  I  warn  you  that  you  are  going  the 
very  best  way  to  hinder  me  from  being  sorry  for  what  I 
did.  What  am  I  saying  ?  What  did  I  do  ?  I  cared  too 
little  about  his  comings  and  goings  to  shut  the  house- door 
in  the  face  of  a  boy,  who  had  got  into  a  stupid  habit  of 
staring  at  me,  and  who — I  own  to  you — would  have  loved 
me  if  I  had  let  him,  without  my  running  after  him,  and  per- 
secuting him  in  the  way  I  did  you  " — throwing  herself  into 
a  rustic  chair,  and  sobbing  violently  at  the  reopening  of  the 
old  wound  caused  by  the  reluctant  origin  of  Paul's  affec- 
tion. 

Paul  hates  a  scene  with  all  his  strength.  He  kneels 
down  beside  her,  but  even  then  he  is  too  angry  to  be  able 
to  bring  himself  to  say  any  thing  fond.  "  Good  God ! 
Lenore,  stop  crying ;  they  will  hear  you  in  the  drawing- 
room." 

"  If  I  had  turned  him  out  of  the  house,"  she  says,  from 
the  depths  of  her  pocket-handkerchief,  "  I  should  have  met 
him  fifty  times  a  day  in  the  street." 

"  Why  could  not  you  leave  Dinan  ?  " 

"  We  had  taken  the  lodgings  for  six  months." 

"  Lenore  /"  (very  impatiently),  "what  are  you  going  on 
crying  about  ?  What  more  have  I  said  ?  It  is  five  min- 
utes to  luncheon-time." 

"  Hundreds  and  hundreds  of  times  I  have  told  him, 
honestly,  what  a  bore  I  thought  him ! "  continues  she,  dry- 
ing her  eyes,  having  successfully  stained  and  disfigured  her 
face  almost  past  recognition. 

"  It  implies  a  considerable  amount  of  intimacy  with  a 


184  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

man  to  be  able  to  tell  him,  to  his  face,  that  you  think  him 
a  bore,"  retorts  Paul,  dryly. 

"I  was  intimate  with  him,"  replies  Lenore,  boldly. 
"Who  says  I  was  not? — not  I,  certainly.  He  was  kind 
and  manly  and  gentlemanlike,  which  not  one  of  the  half- 
dozen  broken-down  Irishmen  who  form  the  manhood  of 
Dinan  was :  he  was  a  sort  of  tame  cat  about  the  house, 
and  so  near  my  own  age,  and  altogether — " 

Paul  winces;  he  himself  was  verging  on  eighteen, 
full  of  man's  impulses  and  thoughts,  when  this  his  be- 
trothed was  born. 

"  When  I  gave  myself  to  you  at  Huelgoat,"  continues 
the  girl,  more  calmly,  but  with  profound  earnestness  in  her 
swimming  eyes,  "  and  you  took  me — more,  I  think,  out  of 
compassion  and  gratitude  than  any  thing  else,  but  still  you 
took  me — did  I  keep  back  one  smallest  fraction  to  be  able 
to  give  it  to  another  man  ?  Not  a  shred !  Myself,  with 
all  my  badness  and  my  goodness — not  much  of  the  latter, 
perhaps — I  gave  you,  and  you  have  it." 

"  I  have — have  I  ?  "  says  Paul,  whose  harsh  face  has 
been  gradually  softening  throughout  the  last  sentence,  and 
at  the  end  looks  almost  mollified.  "  Well,  then,  with  your 
permission,  I  will  keep  you,  and  not  hand  you  over  to  Mr. 
Scrope,  manly  and  gentlemanlike  as  he  no  doubt  is,  and 
also  so  much  more  suitable  to  you  in  age,  as  you  kindly  re- 
minded me  just  now.  Lenore,  I  have  been  counting :  I 
was  eighteen  the  day  you  were  born." 

"  And  I  am  sure  you  were  an  ugly,  gawky,  hobblede- 
hoy, all  arms  and  legs !  I  am  very  glad  I  did  not  know 
you  in  those  days,"  says  Lenore,  laughing;  then,  quite 
gravely :  "  Paul,  never  pretend  to  be  jealous  of  me  again  ! 
It  is  patent  to  everybody  that  I  love  you  a  hundred  times 
better  than  you  do  me  ;  you  know  it  yourself,  and  I — I  am 
not  blind  to  it." 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  185 

"  Bosli ! "  says  Paul,  turning  away  uneasily,  not  feeling 
exactly  guilty ;  for  he  does  love  her  heartily,  yet  with  an 
uncomfortable  lurking  sensation  that  there  is  a  grain  of 
truth  in  what  she  asserts. 

"  It  is  the  way  of  the  world,  I  suppose,"  says  the  girl, 
sighing.  "  One  gives,  and  the  other  takes ;  it  would  be 
superfluous  for  both  to  give,  would  not  it  ?  Perhaps  some 
day — some  far-off  day — the  balance  will  be  changed,  and 
we  shall  love  each  other  equally ;  till  then — " 

"  Till  then,"  says  Paul,  gayly,  mimicking  her  tone — 
"  till  then,  Lenore,  let  us  go  to  luncheon,  and  eat  so  many 
mince-pies  as  to  incapacitate  us  for  afternoon  church." 


CHAPTER    III. 

WHAT     THE     AUTHOK     SAYS. 

IT  is  afternoon  tea-time,  and  that  high  festival  is  always 
held  in  the  hall.  Scrope  knows  that  there  is  no  hope  of 
bezique  to-night,  and  Paul  sees  that  a  tete-d-ttte  is  unlikely. 
They  have  therefore  retired  to  the  smoking-room,  and,  with 
their  enmity  temporarily  smothered,  and  their  friendship  as 
temporarily  reborn,  are  smoking  the  pipe  of  peace  together. 
Only  the  three  sisters  lounge  round  the  fire  in  easy-chairs ; 
the  fire,  in  burning,  makes  the  low,  quiet  noise  that  is  fire's 
talk. 

"  How  I  ever  shall  bring  myself  to  call  him  c  Paul,'  I 
am  sure  I  do  not  know,"  says  Sylvia,  gently  moving  to  and 
fro  the  hand-screen  with  which  she  is  shading  her  face. 
"  If  it  were  a  three  or  even  a  two-syllabled  name — Augus- 
tus, or  Reginald,  or  Henry — it  would  not  sound  half  so  fa- 
miliar; but  ''Paul!'*  there  is  something  so  abrupt  and  un- 


186  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

compromising  about  it ;  however,  I  managed  to  bring  it 
out  at  luncheon.  I  said,  '  Paul,  will  you  cut  me  some 
partridge  ? '  Did  you  hear  ?  He  looked  so  pleased." 

"  I  do  not  think  he  heard,"  says  Jemima,  maliciously. 
"  I  always  tell  Lenore  that  he  is  like  Dr.  Johnson — deaf 
while  he  is  eating." 

"  Oh,  but  he  did,  though !  "  retorts  Sylvia,  quickly,  get- 
ting rather  pink.  "  I  knew  it  by  his  face  ;  one  can  always 
tell  by  a  man's  face  when  he  is  rubbed  the  right  way." 

Jemima  looks  across  skeptically  at  Lenore,  who  smiles 
lazily  back. 

"  Do  you  remark  that  he  never  calls  me  any  thing  but 
4  Mrs.  Prodgers  ? ' "  continues  Sylvia,  complacently ;  "  many 
a  man  would  have  taken  advantage  of  his  situation  to  '  Syl- 
via '  me  at  once.  I  think  it  so  particularly  gentlemanlike 
of  him,  and  I  shall  tell  him  so  as  soon  as  we  get  on  a  little 
more  easy  terms  ;  you  might  give  him  a  hint,  Lenore,  that 
he  need  not  be  so  ceremonious  for  the  future." 

"  I  do  not  think  it  has  any  thing  to  do  with  gentleman- 
likeness,"  replies  Jemima,  who  has  retained  all  her  old 
aversion  for  hearing  Mr.  Le  Mesurier  complimented.  "  He 
does  not  remember  your  Christian  name." 

"  Impossible  ! "  cries  Sylvia,  now  thoroughly  nettled. 
"  How  can  he  help  knowing  it  when  he  hears  Charlie 
Scrope  calling  me  by  it  fifty  times  in  the  course  of  the 
day  ?  By-the-by,  I  must  tell  that  boy  that  it  will  not  do 
for  him  to  be  Christian-naming  me  before  all  those  people 
at  the  Websters'  to-night.  Poor  fellow!  he  means  no 
harm ;  but  I  suppose  it  is  one  of  the  penalties  of  being 
left  so  early  alone  in  the  world,  that  one  sets  people's 
tongues  wagging  more  easily  than  others  do." 

"  What  a  trial  the  Websters  are  ! "  says  Jemima,  groan- 
ing. "  To  dine  out  on  Christmas-day !  It  would  be  hardly 
greater  heathenism  to  give  a  ball  on  Good  Friday !  " 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  187 

"  And  such  a  regiment  of  us  going,  too !  "  says  Lenore, 
sitting  up  in  her  chair,  and  pushing  back  the  restive  hair- 
pins that  her  reclining  attitude  has  displaced.  "  One,  two, 
three,  four,  five — like  a  flock  of  ducks  waddling  into  the 
room  one  after  another." 

"I  do  not  see  why  we  need  waddfol"  says  Sylvia, 
with  dignity. 

"  I  do  hate  visiting  in  a  patriarchal  manner  with  all  my 
tribe  ! "  returns  Lenore,  energetically. 

Her  betrothed  is  quite  of  her  mind ;  suavity  of  manner 
is  never  his/brfe/  but  he  has  difficulty  in  manifesting  even 
his  usual  amount  of  complaisance,  when  he  discovers  what 
his  fate  is  to  be. 

"  O  Mrs.  Prodgers,  could  not  you  leave  Lenore  and  me 
at  home  ?  We  should  never  be  missed  out  of  such  a  mul- 
titude," he  says,  vainly  hoping  for  a  reprieve  at  the  last 
moment.  "  There  is  something  so  appalling  in  being  trot- 
ted out  as  two  people  who  are  going  to  commit  matri- 
mony ;  an  engaged  couple  are  always  everybody's  legiti- 
mate butt." 

"  I  do  not  think  you  need  be  afraid  of  that,"  says  Syl- 
via, speaking  with  the  happy  mixture  of  sisterliness  and 
coquetry,  with  which  she  always  addresses  her  future  con- 
nection. "  You  see  you  have  never  been  seen  with  us  be- 
fore, and  Char — ,  I  mean  Mr.  Scrope,  has  always  been  en 
evidence.  I  think  he  is  generally  looked  upon  as  the 
happy  man. — Lenore,  would  not  Paul  have  laughed  the 
other  night  to  see  the  way  in  which  the  Ansons  manoeu- 
vred to  let  you  have  the  morning-room  to  yourselves  ?  If 
they  are  there  to-night,  we  may  have  quite  a  pleasant  little 
mystification." 

At  the  conclusion  of  this  speech,  Scrope  smiles  oddly, 
Jemima  reddens,  Lenore  rushes  headlong  into  a  remark 
that  has  neither  head,  tail,  nor  middle,  and  Paul — Paul  is 


188  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

putting  on  his  overcoat ;  his  face  is  turned  away — one  can- 
not see  it. 

They  look  to  themselves — or  rather  to  some  of  them- 
selves— an  inordinately  long  string,  as  they  file  into  the 
Websters'  drawing-room  :  three  long-tailed  ladies,  two 
swallow-tailed  men.  The  light  is  very  subdued,  even  more 
so  than  people  usually  have  it  in  the  five  minutes  before 
dinner.  Paul  gives  up  the  idea  of  making  out  the  Webster 
family  in  detail  till  dinner ;  then  Lenore  will  explain  them  to 
him  sufficiently  to  prevent  his  descanting  on  the  ugliness  of 
a  wife  to  a  husband,  or  making  disparaging  remarks  about 
a  child  to  a  parent.  As  he  stands  near  the  fire,  furnishing 
the  room,  in  company  with  half  a  dozen  other  men — whom 
he  regards  with  the  innate  distrust  and  thinly-veiled  suspi- 
cion with  which  every  Englishman  regards  every  other  Eng- 
lishman who  has  the  misfortune  to  be  unknown  to  him — 
his  spirit  soothes  itself.  The  drive  was  the  worst  part,  and 
that  is  over  :  not  allowed  to  decline  into  comfortable 
silence  and  semi-sleep  by  Sylvia,  next  whom  he  sat,  and 
obliged  by  the  noise  the  omnibus  made  to  say  "  What  ? " 
and  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  did  not  catch  what  you  said," 
in  answer  to  all  her  low-murmured  prettinesses. 

He  will  be  very  kind  to  Lenore  to-night.  Hitherto  he 
has  made  her  Christmas-Day  rather  tearful,  poor  child ! 
Well,  she  shall  have  a  thoroughly  happy  evening,  if  he  can 
compass  it ;  after  all,  perhaps,  he  will  have  better  chances 
of  private  commune  with  her,  of  sweet,  grave  talk,  and 
sweeter  looks  into  her  lovely,  loving  eyes,  than  he  would 
have  had  in  the  small  home  party,  with  Jemima  and  Sylvia 
staring  at  him. 

These  thoughts  are  interrupted  by  the  approach  of  an 
old  lady  in  a  yellow  gown  (to  whom  he  has  a  dim  idea  of 
having  been  introduced  as  hostess),  who  leads  him  up  to  a 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SATS.  189 

plain  girl  in  blue,  presents  him,  and  leaves  him  beside  her, 
with  a  whispered  request  that  he  will  take  her  into  dinner. 

In  a  moment  afterward  that  festival  is  announced. 
Paul  sees  men  and  women,  all  equally  unknown  to  him, 
paired  together,  marching  solemnly  off.  Presently  a  cou- 
ple, of  whom  neither  man  nor  woman  is  unknown  to  him, 
sweep  by — Lenore  and  Scrope. 

"  This  is  part  of  the  pleasant  little  mystification,  I  sup- 
pose," he  thinks,  setting  his  teeth.  "  Who  knows  if  Le- 
nore were  not  a  party  to  it  ?  "  But  the  ungenerous  thought 
is  no  sooner  formed,  than  he  is  disabused  of  it  by  the  ex- 
pression of  the  beautiful  face,  that,  unhappily  for  itself,  can 
never  keep  its  own  secrets.  She  looks  at  him  over  her 
shoulder  with  a  look  of  unaffected  angry  disappointment, 
shrugs  her  shoulders  almost  imperceptibly,  while  her  lips 
frame  words  which  he  rather  feels  than  hears  to  be,  "  Too 
bad!" 

On  the  very  smallest  encouragement,  she  would  outrage 
propriety  by  dropping  Scrope's  arm  and  running  to  him. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  he  may  be  able  to  sit  on  the  other  side 
of  her.  He  catches  up  his  ugly  blue  fate  in  a  hurry,  and 
hastens  off  with  her  in  pursuit ;  but  it  is  too  late — another 
couple  have  struck  in  and  occupied  the  coveted  place ;  he 
has  to  content  himself  with  being  nearly  opposite. 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  holly  and  mistletoe  about  the 
room.  Most  of  the  women  have  holly  in  their  hair ;  it  does 
not  look  particularly  pretty,  and  scratches  their  heads  and 
necks.  Altogether,  there  is  a  great  affectation  of  Christ- 
mas cheer  and  jollity.  But  the  entrees  are  cold,  the  cham- 
pagne is  all  froth  and  sweetness,  and  the  sherry  is  not  to 
be  named  in  the  same  breath  with  Mrs.  Prodgers's. 

Scrope  has  no  idea  of  allowing  his  neighbor  to  lapse 
into  sentimental  silence,  and  wistful  gazes  across  the  table. 
He  has  got  her  now  to  himself  for  a  full  hour  and  a  half ; 


190  "QOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

except  under  pretext  of  a  bleeding  nose,  or  improbably 
sudden  indisposition,  she  cannot  get  away  from  him. 

"  Miss  Lenore,  the  expression  of  your  face  reminds  me 
of  a  scene  in  '  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew : '  '  Enter  Horatio, 
with  his  head  broken.'  " 

Lenore  declines  to  smile. 

"  It  is  not  my  fault  that  Mrs.  Webster  has  not  entered 
with  her  head  broken,"  she  answers,  with  perfect  gravity. 

"  Why  so  ? — for  giving  us  such  a  drink  as  this  ?  Well, 
it  is  filthy  stuff!" 

"  For  making  such  a  stupid  mistake  as  to  send  me  out  to 
dinner  with  yow." 

He  bows  his  blond,  curled  head  ceremoniously. 
"Thanks." 

"Engaged  people  always  go  in  to  dinner  together," 
says  Lenore,  trenchantly. 

"  On  what  principle,  I  never  could  divine.  With  a 
whole  lifetime  to  get  sick  of  each  other  in,  why  they  should 
be  crammed  down  each  other's  throats  before  there  is  any 
legal  necessity,  I  never  could  see." 

"  That  is  their  affair." 

"  Mrs.  Webster  was  aware  of  the  barbaric  custom," 
says  Scrope,  growing  as  red  as  any  girl.  "  She  was  good 
enough  to  imagine  that  it  was  jTthat  was  engaged  to  you." 

Lenore  reddens,  and  turns  down  the  corners  of  her 
mouth. 

"  What  could  have  put  so  grotesque  an  idea  into  her 
head?" 

"  There  is  nothing  grotesque  about  it,"  replies  the 
young  man,  coolly.  "  Internally,  we  may  be  conscious  of 
how  distasteful  to,  and  dissimilar  from,  each  other  we  are ; 
but  outwardly,  we  are  rather  suitable." 

"  I  do  not  see  it "  (very  icily). 

"  Miss  Lenore  "  (turning  round  and  bending  over  her, 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SATS.  101 

to  speak  low  and  eagerly),  "  why  do  you  thrust  your  hap- 
piness so  obtrusively  under  my  nose  ?  Do  I  deny  your 
bliss  ?  Do  I  pretend  to  be  as  happy  as  you  ?  "  She  is  si- 
lent. "  We  cannot  all  be  Paul  Le  Mesuriers,  you  know," 
says  Scrope,  with  a  rather  jarring  laugh.  "  Of  course,  we 
would  if  we  could ;  but,  as  we  cannot,  you  must  bear  with 
us." 

Lenore  glances  across  apprehensively  at  her  lover,  to 
see  whether  he  has  caught  his  own  name  ;  but  no — he  is 
not  looking  at  her.  With  grave  interest,  he  and  his  blue 
neighbor  are  together  consulting  the  mystic  French  secrets 
of  the  carte.  Bah .!  how  greedy  the  best  of  men  are ! 

"  Was  it  good  manners,"  continues  Scrope,  growing 
more  excited  at  each  word,  "  to  shrug  your  shoulders  so 
perceptibly,  and  exclaim  so  audibly,  '  Too  bad ! '  because 
your  hand  had  to  rest  on  my  coat-sleeve  for  the  tenth  part 
of  a  minute  ?  " 

"I  never  pretend  to  good  manners,"  replies  Lenore, 
shortly. 

"  He  will  sit  into  your  pocket  all  this  evening ;  he  will 
sit  into  your  pocket,"  says  the  young  man  (making  use  of 
an  audacious  figure),  "  all  the  rest  of  your  life.  Need  you 
have  grudged  me  my  miserable  half-hour's  innings  ?  " 

Again  Lenore  glances  hurriedly  across ;  still  he  is  not 
thinking  of  her.  She  looks  at  Scrope :  his  blue  eyes  are 
always  bright,  but  the  champagne,  bad  as  it  is,  has  made 
them  sparkle  more  brightly  than  ever.  With  his  straight 
nose,  and  soft,  gold  mustache,  most  women  would  have 
thought  him  distractingly  handsome.  An  innocent,  cheru- 
bic, yet  stalwart  beauty,  such  as  some  men  manage  to 
preserve  through  half  a  dozen  seasons,  Scrope  looks  as  if 
he  had  said  his  prayers  and  gone  to  bed  at  eight  o'clock 
every  night  of  his  life. 

"  For  one  half-hour  forget  that  there  is  such  a  person," 


192  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

says  the  young  man,  entreatingly.  "  At  cheese-time  I  will 
give  you  leave  to  remember  him  again." 

"  You  are  very  good.     Till  then — " 

"  Till  then — bah  !*"  cries  he,  with  a  reckless  laugh ; 
"  let  us  eat  and  drink,  for  to-morrow  we  die,  or — marry, 
which  is  worse." 

"  The  one  is  at  least  optional,  which  the  other  is  not," 
says  Lenore,  with  a  demure  but  rather  wicked  look  at  him 
from  under  her  eyes. 

Paul  has  abandoned  the  carte  /  he  has  discovered  what 
the  word  that  puzzled  him  was.  "  It  is  l  TopinenbourysJ  " 
he  s&ys  to  his  neighbor ;  and  then  he  leans  wearily  back, 
and  thinks  that  he  will  refresh  himself  with  a  look  at  his 
beautiful  sweetheart.  He  does  so  just  in  time  to  witness 
the  glance  that  she  is  bestowing  on  his  rival:  it  is  the 
only  look  with  the  slightest  tendency  to  coquetry  in  it 
that  she  has  given  him  during  dinner,  and  it  is  the  only 
one  that  Paul  intercepts.  Pouf!  is  not  that  ill-luck  for 
you? 


CHAPTER  IV. 

WHAT     THE     AUTHOR     SAYS. 

THE  men  are  left  to  themselves — left  to  work  their 
wicked  will  upon  the  walnuts,  and  to  raven  among  the 
candied  fruits,  of  whose  existence,  as  long  as  the  women 
were  in  the  room,  they  pretended  to  be  unaware.  And 
the  women,  meanwhile,  stand,  gently  rustling,  softly  chat- 
tering, about  the  drawing-room  fire ;  sipping  coffee,  hold- 
ing gossamer  handkerchiefs  between  their  pretty  pink  faces 
and  the  flame,  and  mentally  pricing  and  depreciating  each 
other's  gowns.  Sylvia  is  very  happy ;  she  has,  indis- 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  193 

putably,  a  loager  trail  and  a  thicker  silk  than  any  one  else 
present ;  her  toilet,  happily,  hits  the  golden  mean  between 
the  mournful  and  the  magnificent,  and  she  is  almost  sure 
that,  as  she  left  the  dining-room,  she  heard  some  man  ask 
who  she  was.  Presently  every  one  sinks  into  chairs,  and 
upon  ottomans  and  sofas;  breaking  up  into  groups  of 
twos  and  threes,  as  similarity  of  tastes  in  point-lace,  dress- 
makers, and  children,  prompts.  Lenore  forms  part  of  no 
group — takes  part  in  no  chat.  The  night  is  cold,  and  the 
room  not  particularly  well  warmed ;  yet  she  chooses  an 
easy-chair  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  company,  and  un- 
socially  sitting  by  itself  in  a  little  recess.  Lenore  deposits 
herself  upon  it,  and  bides  her  time.  When  the  walnuts, 
candied  fruits,  and  ungodly  after-dinner  stories  are  done, 
that  time  comes. 

Paul  is  determined  not  to  be  checkmated  a  second 
time;  he  may  dislike  to  be  pointed  out  as  an  engaged 
man,  but  he  dislikes  still  more  to  have  Mr.  Scrope  pointed 
at  as  such.  Pie  walks  straight  up  to  Lenore. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  have  got  hidden  here  ?  "  asks 
the  girl,  looking  up  at  him,  while  her  whole  face  laughs — 
not  only  mouth,  but  eyes,  dimples,  cheeks — as  she  points 
to  the  wide  spread  of  her  gown.  "  Guess  !  " 

"  I  have  not  an  idea." 

She  sweeps  away  her  skirts,  and  discloses  a  tiny,  light 
cane-chair. 

"  Sit  down  !  You  are  an  unfortunately  big  person ; 
but,  I  think,  judiciously  sat  upon,  it  may  bear  you." 

He  had  meant  to  scold  her — well,  the  scolding  will 
keep ;  it  may  be  carried  over,  and  added  to  the  next  ac- 
count. He  sits  down,  and  his  jealousy  goes  to  sleep. 

"  I  was  determined  to  have  no  more  malentendus  to- 
night," says  the  girl,  gravely.  "  If  any  one  had  come  this 
way,  I  meant  to  have  looked  at  him  with  my  own  scowl — 
9 


194  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

the  one  you  used  to  admire  so  much — and  say,  '  This  is  Mr. 
Le  Mesurier's  chair.'  " 

"  Lenore  "  (looking  round  with  a  sense  of  lazy  well- 
being),  "  is  there  any  one  in  the  room  that  is  not  a  Web- 
ster?" 

"Hardly  anybody;  they  are  all  directs  or  collaterals. 
That  tall  old  woman  whose  forehead  has  good-naturedly 
gone  round  to  look  for  the  back  of  her  head,  who  is  ambling 
about  saying  indistinct  civilities  to  everybody,  is  Mrs.  Web- 
ster, the  head  and  fount  for  all  the  others ;  she  always  re- 
minds me  of  Agag — she  'goes  so  delicately.'  " 

"  I  know  her,  the  old  cat  1 "  says  Paul,  resentfully. 
"  Serve  her  right  if  she  were  drowned  in  a  butt  of  her  own 
gooseberry,  and  I  cannot  wish  her  a  worse  fate." 

"  The  old  young  woman  who  never  stops  smiling  is  Miss 
Webster ;  we  call  her  c  the  savory  omelette,'  because  she  is 
so  green  and  yellow !  Does  not  she  smile  ? — it  makes  one's 
face  ache  to  look  at  her."  Paul  laughs.  "  Paul,  if  you 
jilt  me,  and  no  one  else  takes  compassion  on  me,  do  you 
think  I  shall  ever  get  to  the  pitch  of  smiling  like  that  ?  If 
I  thought  so,  I  would  have  the  corners  of  my  mouth  sewn 
up." 

"  Prevention  is  better  than  cure — I  would." 

"  The  man  with  the  red  beard  is  Major  Webster ;  do 
you  see  how  short  and  broad  he  is  ?  His  brother  officers 
say  that  he  has  swallowed  a  box  •  is  not  it  a  delicious  idea  ? 
— it  quite  invigorates  me." 

Paul  laughs  again ;  after  dinner,  it  is  pleasanter  to  be 
amused  than  to  be  amusing. 

"Apropos  of  beards,"  says  Lenore,  turning  from  the 
company  to  a  subject  that  interests  her  more,  "  yours  has 
not  disappeared  yet,  Paul  ?  " 

"  Why,  did  you  think  it  would  ?  Did  you  suppose  I 
moulted,  like  the  birds?" 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SATS.  195 

"  I  thought,  perhaps,  you  might  have  moulted  volun- 
tarily, to  please  me,"  replies  she,  with  a  slight  pout. 

"  When  my  beard  moults,"  retorts  he,  gayly,  with  an 
expressive  glance  at  the  sleek  but  unnaturally  luxuriant 
twists  that  bind  her  head,  "  I  shall  expect  your  (or  rather 
the  unknown  dead  person's)  plaits  to  moult,  too." 

Lenore  shrugs. 

"  Que  voulez-vous  ?'  Look  at  Sylvia.  She  has  at  least 
five  pounds'  worth  011  her  head ;  I  have  certainly  not  more 
than  two  pounds  ten  shillings  on  mine.  Nowadays,  with- 
out a  chignon  of  some  sort,  one's  head  looks  mutilated  and 
indecent." 

"  Then  I  like  mutilation  and  indecency." 

"  Do  you  know,  Paul "  (with  a  pretty  air  of  candor), 
"  without  my  plaits,  I  hardly  look  handsome  at  all  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  believe  it,"  replies  Paul,  with  warmth  ;  "  I 
would  stake  my  existence  that  you  look  infinitely  hand- 
somer, sweeter,  modester !  Why  cannot  you  be  content  to 
wear  your  hair  as  Nature  meant  it— flat  to  your  head,  and 
low  down  on  your  ears  and  cheeks  ?  " 

"  Merciful  Heavens  !  "  cries  Lenore,  expressively  cast- 
ing up  hands  and  eyes  to  heaven.  "  Paul "  (with  a  sudden 
suspicion),  "have  you  been  seeing  any  one  lately  with  her 
hair  dressed  like  that  ?  " 

To  her  searching  eyes,  he  seemed  to  redden  ever  so 
slightly. 

"  No — o,  nobody  particular." 

She  is  not  satisfied,  but  does  not  pursue  the  subject. 

"Well"  (with  a  sigh),  "to  return  to  your  beard — 
Bah !  what  does  the  old  woman  want  with  us  now  ?  Apro- 
pos of  beards,  look  at  hers  !  Has  not  she  a  '  menton  d'une 
fertility  ddsolante,'  as  Gustave  Droz  says  ?  " 

"  So  sorry  to  disturb  you,  but  we  are  going  to  play 
Dumb  Scrambo." 


196  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

This  is  Mrs.  Webster's  errand. 

"  And  what  is  Dumb  Scrambo  ?  "  asks  Paul,  with  a  dis- 
gusted intonation,  when,  hunted  out  of  their  cold  and  quiet 
alcove,  and  the  hostess  having  moved  on  to  collect  fresh 
recruits,  he  and  Lenore  advance  to  join  the  rest  of  the  com- 
pany. 

"  It  is  not  bad  fun,"  answers  the  girl — "  a  sort  of  silent 
charade,  you  know.  Did  you  never  see  it  ?  Oh,  you  must 
have  done ! " 

"  But  I  have  not." 

"  Oh,  you  know,  the  audience  think  of  a  word.  You 
will  be  audience,  will  not  you  ?  I  am  sure  that  you  can  no 
more  act  than  a  tom-cat." 

"Well?" 

"  And  then,  do  not  you  know — they  give  the  actors  an- 
other word  that  rhymes  with  it ;  and  then  they — the  act- 
ors, I  mean — have  to  act  in  dumb-show  all  the  other  words 
that  rhyme  with  it,  till  they  hit  upon  the  right  one." 

At  this  lucid  explanation,  given  with  surprising  rapid- 
ity, Paul  looks  a  good  deal  nrystified.     Mrs.  Webster  has , 
some  difficulty  in  collecting  a  troupe.     Sylvia  is  among 
those  who  positively  decline. 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed — thanks,  Mrs.  Webster — I  really  could 
not ;  I  am  so  childishly  nervous  that  the  feeling  that  every- 
body's eyes  were  fixed  upon  me,  would  make  every  word  I 
had  to  say  go  out  of  my  head." 

" But  you  have  no  words  to  say ;  it  is  all  dumb-show" 

"  Oh,  thanks  !  but  that  really  would  not  make  any  dif- 
ference; I  should  have  the  same  dreadful  feeling  that 
everybody  was  looking  at  me." 

It  being  useless  to  try  and  convince  her  that  some  of 
the  other  actors  might  divert  a  portion  of  the  dreaded  pub- 
lic notice  from  her,  Mrs.  Webster  desists. 

Paul  declines,  too,  with  that  decisive  brevity  which  for- 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  197 

bids  pressing.  He  is  angry  with  Lenore  for  not  having 
done  likewise  ;  but  she  is  firm. 

"  Impossible,  my  dear  boy,"  she  says,  in  a  smiling  aside. 
"  If  they  were  to  ask  me  to  walk  on  my  head  to-night,  I 
should  have  to  try  and  do  it.  Have  not  they  given  us  a 
huge  family  teapot,  and  is  not  this  part  payment  ? 

He  is  the  more  displeased  when  he  sees  Mr.  Scrope 
march  off,  with  the  best  of  the  performers,  into  the  dining- 
room,  which  opens  out  of  the  hall,  and  is  converted  into  a 
temporary  greenroom. 

It  is  a  pretty  old  house,  oak-floored ;  a  step  here,  a 
step  there,  in  and  out  of  the  rooms.  The  audience  have 
disposed  themselves  about  the  hall-fire  in  chairs  set  a-row 
for  them.  The  leading  spirits  among  them  have  fixed 
upon  a  word,  a  very  little  one  indeed,  but  which  they  hope 
will  prove  puzzling:  it  is  jet.  The  word  that  rlrymes  with 
it,  which  they  have  given  to  the  performers,  is  net.  In  the 
interval  of  waiting,  until  these  latter  shall  be  prepared  to 
be  dumbly  funny,  they  beguile  the  time  with  talk. 

"  I  always  envy  people  who  have  aplomb  enough  to 
act,  and  do  all  that  sort  of  thing  that  makes  one  conspic- 
uous," says  Sylvia,  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  biting  the 
top  of  her  black  fan,  and  looking  pensively  over  it  at  Paul, 
who  happens  to  be  her  neighbor.  "  I  am  afraid  I  am  not 
quite  like  other  people,  but  I  should  feel  ready  to  sink  in- 
to the,  earth,  don't  you  know  !  Now,  Lenore  has  none  of 
that  feeling." 

"  Evidently  not,"  replies  Paul,  dryly. 

His  eyes  are  fixed  on  the  dining-room  door ;  it  is  a 
little  ajar,  and,  through  the  chink  left,  he  sees  a  dim  vision 
of  green.  Lenore  has  a  green  dress ;  he  is  straining  his 
eyes  to  see  whose  are  the  legs  that  are  in  juxtaposition 
with  that  green  gown. 

"Last  time  we  were  here,"  continued   Sylvia,  "they 


198  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

acted  the  word  '  tail ; '  and  all  the  ladies  fastened  long  boas 
to  their  dresses  behind,  and  walked  about  the  stage  wag- 
ging them.  You  can  have  no  conception  how  droll  it 
looked." 

Further  talked  is  stopped  by  the  opening  of  the  dining- 
room  door,  and  appearance  of  the  performers.  Mr. 
Scrope  makes  his  entry  on  his  hands  and  knees,  crawling 
awkwardly  along.  It  is  plain  that  he  is  meant  to  repre- 
sent a  horse ;  his  gait  much  more  nearly  resembles  a  cross 
between  that  of  a  bear  and  a  monkey,  but  the  equine  in- 
tention is  evident ;  it  is  rendered  the  more  so  by  the  fact 
of  Major  Webster  being  seated  astride  on  his  back,  with 
a  tall  hat  on  his  head  and  a  dog- whip  in  his  hand ;  with 
this  latter  he  pleasantly  flogs  him  round  the  stage.  Then 
another  Webster  enters — a  heavy  fellow,  who  has  been  dis- 
tinguishing himself  by  making  stupid  and  impossible  sug- 
gestions— comes  up,  and  feels  his  legs.  Mr.  Scrope  lashes 
mostly  out  at  him,  and  then  continues  his  victorious 
course,  kicking  and  plunging  round  the  room.  It  entails 
fearful  exertion,  and  feelings  verging  on  apoplexy ;  but  he 
is  rewarded  by  the  plaudits  of  his  fellows.  Having  un- 
horsed Major  Webster,  and  sent  that  gallant  officer  rolling 
on  the  oak-floor,  to  the  great  benefit  of  his  dress-clothes, 
the  cortege  retires,  amid  laughter  and  well-deserved 
hisses. 

"  How  good  for  the  knees  of  his  trousers !  "  says  Paul, 
who,  with  a  mind  relieved  from  the  apprehension  of  see- 
ing Lenore  in  some  grotesquely  affectionate  or  affection- 
ately grotesque  attitude  with  Scrope,  is  able  to  laugh  as 
heartily  as  the  others. 

"  Poor  man  !  did  not  he  look  as  if  all  the  blood  in  his 
body  had  rushed  to  his  head  ?  "  says  a  young  lady,  com- 
passionatel}7. 

"  That  was  a  good  bona-fide  kick  he  gave  Webster," 


WHAT  TEE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  199 

says  a  man — "  no  mistake  about  it.  I  wonder  how  his 
shins  feel  ?  " 

Meanwhile  the  actors  are  talking  over  their  late  per- 
formance, and  planning  the  next. 

"  It  was  not  obvious  enough,"  says  Major  Webster, 
who,  being  manager,  is  responsible  for  the  eclat  of  the  pro- 
ceedings. 

"  It  had  no  more  to  say  to  bet  than  I  have,"  said  Le- 
nore,  bluntly.  "  I  cannot  imagine  how  they  ever  guessed 
it;  I  do  not  believe  they  have." 

"  Well — no,  perhaps  not  (looking  rather  mortified). 
"  You  see  "  (gnawing  his  mustache  reflectively), "  we  were 
supposed  to  be  betting  about  him  "  (nodding  at  Scrope). 
"  It  is  rather  difficult  to  be  explicit  when  one  does  not  say 
any  thing." 

"  Phew  !  "  cries  Scrope,  wiping  his  face,  and  stroking 
down  his  tossed  curly  locks.  "  I  had  no  idea  that  being  a 
horse  was  such  apoplectic  work. — Miss  Lenore  "  (turning 
eagerly  to  her),  "  did  you  see  me  ?  Was  not  I  a  very  free 
goer?" 

"  I  did  not  look  at  you,"  replies  Lenore,  indifferently. 
"  I  was  thinking  what  we  could  have  next.  What  on  earth 
rhymes  with  net  ?  Set  ?  pet  ?  fret  ?  " 

"  Fret !  "  cries  Paul's  blue  dinner-neighbor,  determined 
not  to  be  behind  the  rest,  though  in  her  the  dramatic  gift 
is,  to  say  the  least,  latent.  "  Might  not  we  all  go  in,  and 
sit  in  a  row  with  our  handkerchiefs  up  to  our  eyes,  crying, 
'  Don't  you  know  ? ' " 

"  I  do  not  think  it  would  be  very  amusing,"  replies  Le- 
nore, dryly.  "  Let  ?  set  ?  pet  ?  " 

"  Pet  /"  suggests  the  heavy  youth,  brilliantly.  "  What 
do  you  say  to  one  of  us  going  in  by  himself,  and  pretend- 
ing to  be  in  an  ill-humor — pet — eh  ?  " 

This  idea  meets  with  the  silent  contempt  it  so  justly 
merits. 


200  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

A  pause. 

"  Stay — I  have  it,"  says  Scrope,  eagerly. 

"  Eureka !  One  of  us  must  be  a  baby — a  dear  little 
pet,  you  know  ;  and  some  one  else  must  carry  us  in,  squall- 
ing and  hallooing.  I  say,  who  will  be  the  baby  ?  Do  not 
all  speak  at  once  ! " 

The  warning  is  unnecessary. 

"  Well,  I  suppose,  if  nobody  else  will,  I  must,"  says 
Major  Webster,  rather  ruefully. — "  Scrope,  you  are  the  big- 
gest ;  will  you  carry  me  in  ?  Are  you  sure  you  can  ?  " 
eying  him  rather  doubtfully. 

"  Of  course  I  can,  my  dear  fellow,  as  soon  as  look  at 
you.  Up  with  you ! "  answers  Scrope,  stoutly,  and  so 
stoops  promptly  down  to  embrace  his  nursling's  legs. 

"  Stop  a  bit ! "  cries  the  other,  gravely,  stroking  his  red 
beard.  "  I  must  have  something  on — must  not  I  ? — or  they 
will  not  know  I  am  a  baby." 

Scrope  looks  round  on  the  properties  scattered  about — 
umbrellas,  hats,  door-mats,  sheets,  carving-knives. 

"  Here  you  are,"  he  says,  snatching  up  a  white  table- 
cloth. "  This  is  the  very  thing  for  you. — Who  has  got  a 
big  pin  ?  " 

Having  pinned  the  table-cloth  round  his  waist,  and  tied 
an  antimacassar  over  his  head,  Major  Webster  stands  com- 
plete, ready  to  represent  smiling  infancy.  There  is  some 
difficulty  in  getting  him  hoisted  up ;  the  table-cloth  will 
get  under  Mr.  Scrope's  feet,  and  trip  him  up. 

"  For  God's  sake,  don't  drop  me  !  "  cries  Webster,  ner- 
vously. "  Perhaps  we  had  better  give  up  the  idea." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it !  Get  up  on  the  chair ;  I  shall  have 
better  purchase  of  you." 

"  And  what  am  I  to  do  ?  "  asks  Lenore,  beginning  to 
laugh  by  anticipation.  "  Have  I  no  role  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  must  be  nursery-maid,  don't  you  know  ? " 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  201 

says  Scrope,  panting,  and  clasping  the  major's  legs^as  he 
stands  on  the  chair,  "  and  give  him  the  bottle  when  he  hal- 
loos.  There,  take  that  hearth-brush,  and  shoot  it  out  at 
him ;  that  will  do  as  well  as  any  thing  else." 

"  But  a  bottle  does  not  shoot  out"  objects  Lenore, 
whose  acquaintance  with  the  ways  and  appurtenances  of 
infancy,  though  meagre,  is  apparently  more  exact  than  the 
young  man's. 

"  What  does  that  signify?  "  says  Scrope,  breathlessly, 
having  with  one  final  effort  heaved  up  his  bearded  baby. 
"  One  must  leave  something  to  the  imagination." 

"  For  God's  sake,  mind  the  step ! "  cries  Webster, 
gloomily,  looking  down  with  apprehensive  eye  from  his 
unnatural  elevation. 

It  is  nervous  work,  but  they  get  through  it  trium- 
phantly. Mr.  Scrope  staggers  along,  with  laboring  breath, 
and  arms  firmly  clasped  round  his  baby's  table-clothed  legs, 
who,  for  his  part,  clutching  Scrope  convulsively  round  the 
neck,  while  his  bronzed  face  and  beard  emerge  absurdly 
from  his  antimacassar,  gives  utterance  to  a  series  of  the 
dismallest  deep  yells,  supposed  to  represent  the  faint  cries 
of  infancy.  Lenore  walks  gravely  alongside,  occasionally 
shooting  out  her  hearth-brush  at  him ;  whether  or  not  the 
audience  discover  that  it  is  the  mystic  symbol  of  an  "  Alex- 
andra" bottle  will  never  be  known  till  the  Last  Day. 
Having  completed  the  circuit  of  the  room,  and  made  a 
playful  feint  of  depositing  his  "pet"  in  Jemima's  lap,  Mr. 
Scrope  and  his  coadjutors  retire. 

"  I  thought  it  was  Dumb  Scrambo,"  says  Paul,  dryly, 
as  Major  Webster's  last  bellow  dies  on  the  ear. 

"  I  suppose  that  only  applies  to  articulate  sounds,"  re- 
plies Jemima,  who  is  on  his  other  side.  "  Bah !  "  (wiping 
her  eyes)  ;  "  it  is  an  insult  to  one's  understanding  to  laugh, 
but  one  cannot  help  it.  After  all,  it  is  not  half  so  good  as 
charades." 


202  "  GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!  " 

"  Paul  should  have  been  at  the  Ansons'  the  other  night," 
says  Sylvia,  with  a  little  coy  hesitation  and  stumbling  (both 
quite  thrown  away)  over  his  name ;  then,  turning  to  him : 

"  You  should  have  seen  Lenore,  as  bar-maid,  running 
about  and  saying  all  sorts  of  impertinent  things  to  the 
gentlemen,  in  a  Breton  cap.  Do  you  know,  she  has  got  an 
immensely  becoming  Breton  cap !  I  tell  her  that  it  is  too 
matronly  for  her,  and  that  she  ought  to  give  it  to  me.  Do 
you  give  your  consent  ? "  (opening  and  shutting  her  fan 
bashfully). 

"  A  bar-maid  f  "  repeats  Paul,  with  a  slightly-clouded 
face.  "  Very  entertaining,  I  dare  say  ;  and  who  were  the 
gentlemen  that  she  said  impertinent  things  to  ?  " 

"  You  need  not  be  jealous,"  interposes  Jemima,  with  a 
rather  dry  laugh.  "  Only  old  Mr.  Anson ;  he  came  in  as 
Boots  in  a  pea-jacket.  Now,  if  there  is  an  absurd  sight  in 
the  world,  it  is  an  old  fat  man  in  a  pea-coat." 

"  Ah  !  true,  so  it  was  ! "  says  Sylvia,  languidly.  "  In- 
constant, you  know,  was  the  word ;  that  was  inn,  and  con- 
stant— " 

"  How  long  they  are  in  coming  this  time  !  "  cries  Jemi- 
ma, hastily  interrupting.  "  What  can  they  be  doing  ?  " 

"  And  constant  f  "  says  Paul,  leaning  forward,  while 
his  eyes  shine  with  a  rather  doubtful  expression.  "  How 
was  that  acted  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  will  tell  you,"  says  Sylvia,  with  charm- 
ing archness.  "  You  know,  '  when  the  cat's  away,  the  mice 
will  play.'  Well,  Lenore  was  supposed  to  be  engaged  to 
Charlie  Scrope.  Poor  Charlie  !  he  torments  me  out  of  my 
life  to  act,  too  ;  but  I  said,  '  No !  no !  no !  not  my  line  at 
all!'" 

'"Well — but  about  Lenore?"  interrupts  Paul,  impa- 
tiently. 

"  Oh,  yes,  to  be  sure.     Charlie  was  supposed  to  have 


WHAT  TEE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  203 

been  away  for  five  or  six  years,  and  to  come  back  suddenly, 
and  then  they  rushed  into  each  other's  arms ;  of  course  " 
(tapping  him  playfully  with  her  fan),  "  it  was  only  a 
stac/e-embrace — cela  va  sans  dire— but  it  made  us  all 
laugh ! " 

The  cloud  deepens  on  the  young  man's  forehead. 

"  It  must  have  been  almost  better  than  the  bar-maid," 
he  says,  grimly,  turning  away. 

Meanwhile,  the  ingenious  troupe,  still  at  fault  for  the 
right  word,  have  hit  upon  another  wrong  one — "  Wet" 

"  You  carry  in  a  candle,"  says  Major  Webster  to  Le- 
nore,  thrusting  the  weapon  indicated  into  her  hand,  "  and 
pretend  to  catch  fire ;  blow  out  the  candle  and  drop  it,  and 
begin  to  scream  like  mad  ;  and  then — don't  you  know  ? — 
we  will  all  rush  in  with  buckets,  and  put  you  out." 

"  But  must  I  scream  much,  or  little  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  louder  the  better  ;  and  you  must  go  on 
screaming  till  we  come." 

Lenore  does  exactly  as  she  is  bid.  Shrieking  at  the 
pitch  of  her  high,  clear  voice,  imaginarily  burning,  and  as 
imaginarily  being  extinguished — with  one  of  Mrs.  Web- 
ster's best  silver  candlesticks  lying  dinted  and  doubled  up 
at  her  feet — her  joyous  eyes  seek  her  lover's  face  for  ap- 
plause ;  but,  as  soon  as  they  light  on  it,  both  her  laughter 
and  her  screams  together  die.  Unmindful  of  her  assist- 
ants, she  hurries  back  into  the  dining-room. 

"  You  stopped  much  too  soon,"  says  Major  Webster, 
reproachfully ;  "  you  ought  to  have  gone  on  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  longer." 

"  Is  your  dress  damaged  ?  Did  any  of  the  wax  fall  on 
it  ?  "  asks  Scrope,  eagerly,  falling  on  his  knees  before  her, 
and  catching  hold  of  the  silk.  His  back  is  turned  to  the 
others,  who  have  already  fallen  into  fres-h  wranglings  and 
janglings  ;  nobody  sees  him ;  he  stoops  his  head  hurriedly, 


204  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

and  brushes  one  of  her  smart  lace-flounces  with  the  silky 
gold  of  his  mustache. 

"  What  are  you  doing  ?  "  she  cries,  angrily,  twitching 
it  away  from  his  clasp. 

"  I  am  playing  a  Dumb  Scrambo  of  my  own,"  he  says, 
lifting  his  eyes  with  a  defiant  flash  to  hers.  "  Why  do  you 
stop  me  ?  It  amuses  me,  and  it  does  you  no  harm." 

"  I  hate  Dumb  Scrambo  !  "  she  cries,  passionately.  "  It 
is  a  vile  game.  Why  did  you  play  at  it  ? — who  wanted 
you  ?  There  were  plenty  without  you." 

"  I  played,"  says  the  young  man,  raising  himself  from 
his  kneeling  posture,  and  growing  rather  white  under  these 
amenities,  "  because  I  have  a  benighted  idea  that,  when 
you  go  to  other  people's  houses,  you  should  conform  to 
their  amusements,  and  not  consult  only  your  own,  as  some 
people  do." 

"  Is  that  meant  for  a  sneer  at  Paul  ?  "  asks  Lenore,  in  a 
fury. 

"  Do  you  think,"  continues  the  young  man,  incisively, 
"  that  I  enjoyed  crawling  along  a  beeswaxed  floor  in  my 
dress-clothes  ?  " 

No  answer. 

"  Do  you  think  that  I  enjoyed  hauling  about  that  Jack 
Pudding  "  (with  a  glance  at  Major  Webster's  broad  back) 
"  for  the  amusement  of  half  a  dozen  old  women  ?  " 

"  Of  course  you  did,  or  you  would  not  have  done  it," 
answers  Lenore,  brusquely. 

"  It,  at  least,  had  the  good  effect  of  rooting  you  out  of 
your  corner,"  says  Scrope,  with  a  bitter  laugh.  "Per- 
haps it  was  worth  while  breaking  one's  back,  and  spoil- 
ing the  knees  of  one's  trousers,  to  accomplish  such  a 
result." 

"  Why  on  earth  could  not  you  leave  us  there  in 
peace  ?  "  cries  the  girl,  angrily.  "  You  might  have  sat  in  a 


WHAT  JZMIMA  SAYS.  205 

corner  till  the  crack  of  doom,  and  I  would  not  have  put  out 
a  finger  to  move  you  ! " 

"  You  are  in  disgrace"  says  the  young  man,  speaking 
in  a  low  voice,  but  with  an  eager  flush ;  "  I  know  it — so  do 
you  !  we  saw  it  in  his  face — in  disgrace,  because  I  poured 
an  imaginary  bucket  of  imaginary  water  over  you  !  Such 
being  the  case,  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  future  life  !  " 


WHAT     JEMIMA     SATS. 

We  are  in  the  omnibus,  going  home.  There  is  not  an 
earthly  vehicle  that  makes  a  more  deaving  din  than  an 
omnibus — a  sort  of  steam  threshing-machine  in  one's  head ; 
yet  we  are  all  talking — at  least  not  all — four  of  us  d  qui 
mieux  mieux. 

"  Very  stingy  with  their  champagne ;  did  not  half  fill 
one's  glass." 

"  Very  bad  oyster-sauce  ! — something  oily  about  it ! " 

"  The  fricandeau  was  good ;  I  am  always  fond  of  a  fri- 
candeau." 

"  I  think  that,  considering  they  have  a  three-hundred- 
guinea  chef,  and  three  in  the  kitchen  besides,  they  might 
give  one  better  bread-sauce." 

"  I  am  sure  Major  Webster  has  got  a  temper !  I  saw 
him  scowling  at  one  of  the  footmen  at  dinner." 

These  are  some  of  the  severe  and  spirited  strictures 
that  we  are  passing  on  the  entertainment  we  have  just 
quitted. 

"  I  almost  wish  that  we  had  asked  Mrs.  Webster  to 
wait  for  us  in  the  cloak-room,  at  the  ball  on  Friday  night, 
so  that  we  might  all  go  into  the  room  together,"  says  Syl- 
via, with  what  I  feel,  though  I  cannot  see,  to  be  a  simper. 
"  Of  course  I  am  really  quite  an  efficient  chaperone,  but 


206  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

people  make  such  stupid  mistakes  !  The  man  who  took 
me  into  dinner  asked  Miss  Webster  whether  I  was  out! 
Just  fancy ! " 

"  How  differently  people  see  things !  "  I  say,  with  my 
usual  malevolence.  "  The  man  wTho  took  me  into  dinner 
asked  me  which  was  the  older,  you  or  I  ?  " 

Meanwhile  Lenore  says  little,  and  Paul  nothing,  though 
they  are  sitting  side  by  side.  As  we  clatter  and  rumble 
with  redoubled  noise  through  a  village,  a  light  from  a  win- 
dow darts  a  ray  into  our  darkness.  I  see  that  Lenore's 
face  is  turned  toward  him,  and  that  the  hand  nearest  him 
lies  ungloved  on  her  knee,  as  if  wishing  to  be  clasped  by 
his.  Under  cover  of  the  others'  chatter,  I  listen  treacher- 
ously to  their  whispered  talk : 

"Paul,  are  y oudeatf?" 

"No." 

"  Are  you  asleep  ?     I  cannot  see  your  eyes." 

"No." 

"  Are  you  angry  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"What  about?" 

No  answer. 

"  Would  you  be  less  angry  if  I  told  you  (stoop  down 
your  head)  that  I  have  been  in  Gehenna  all  the  evening, 
and  that  I  think  Mm  a  greater  bore  than  ever  ?  " 

The  next  lamp-post  that  we  pass  reveals  the  white  hand 
nestling  in  its  owner's. 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  207 


CHAPTER   V. 

WHAT     THE     AUTHOR     SAYS. 

"  IF  there  is  a  thing  in  all  this  wide  world  that  gives 
me  the  horrors,"  says  Sylvia,  with  a  little  shudder,  "  it  is 
mutton  dressed  lamb-fashion.  I  know  my  temptation  lies 
in  quite  the  other  direction,  to  make  a  grandmother  of  my- 
self!" 

This  is  at  luncheon,  on  the  day  succeeding  the  Dumb 
Scrambo ;  the  friendly  criticisms  on  the  entertainment  and 
the  entertainers  are  being  renewed  and  carried  on  with  a 
spirit  hardly  less  piquant  than  the  sorrel-sauce  that  is  fla- 
voring the  interlocutors'  cutlets. 

"  Poor  Harriet  Webster !  a  white  book-muslin  frock — 
one  can  call  it  nothing  else — and  a  pink  sash,  low,  too, 
nowadays,  when  no  one  thinks  of  being  decollete  except  at 
a  ball ! " 

"  She  only  wanted  a  rattle,  and  to  have  her  sleeves  tied 
up  with  coral,  to  be  the  complete  infant,"  says  Lenore, 
laughing  maliciously.  "If  she  had  thought  of  it,  Mr. 
Scrope,  you  might  have  carried  her  in  last  night,  instead  of 
her  brother ;  she  would  have  been  several  stone  lighter." 

"And  the  way  she  kept  hoisting  up  those  wretched 
little  shoulders,  too,  to  her  ears  !  "  says  Jemima,  putting  in 
her  oar.  "  I  really  trembled  for  the  string  of  her  tucker. 
I  wonder  her  brother  does  not  remonstrate  !  " 

"  Pooh ! "  cries  Lenore,  carelessly.  "  I  do  not  suppose 
that  he  knows  whether  she  has  any  shoulders,  or  any  tuck- 
er either — brothers  never  do  ! " 

A  little  pause  while  the  first  sharpness  of  hunger  is  ap- 
peased ;  then  Lenore  recommences : 

"  What  bushy  black  brows  your  lady  had,  Paul !     Poor 


208  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

fellow !  I  did  pity  you ;  and  they  met  so  amicably  in  a 
tuft  on  the  top  of  her  Roman  nose  !  " 

"  I  did  not  think  much  of  Miss  Jemima's  friend,"  says 
Scrope,  laughing ;  "  he  looked  as  if  he  had  been  run  up  by 
contract — hands  like  feet,  and  feet  like  fire-shovels." 

"  And  his  wife  ?  "  says  Jemima ;  "  did  you  see  her  ? 
No  ? — a  little  bunchy  thing,  who  never  says  any  thing  but 
4  Fancy ! '  and,  if  you  are  very  intimate  with  her,  '  Just 
fancy ! '  " 

"  Then,  like  her,  I  cannot  imagine  why,"  says  Sylvia, 
languidly,  "  she  has  a  way  of  looking  down  her  nose." 

"  Paul,  why  don't  you  speak  ? "  cries  Lenore,  with  a 
pout.  "  We  have  all  said  something  clever ;  it  is  quite 
your  turn." 

"  Is  it?  "  says  Paul,  lazily.  "  Mine  is  a  long  time  hatch- 
ing ;  it  will  come  presently ;  but,  you  see,  you  do  not  know 
any  of  my  best  friends ;  so  it  will  lose  all  its  point,  I  am 
afraid." 

"  I  am  sure  we  have  not  said  any  thing  that  was  not 
perfectly  good-natured,"  says  Sylvia,  with  an  air  of  injured 
innocence ;  "  and,  as  to  that,  I  have  no  doubt  we  are  quite 
quits.  I  dare  say  they  have  made  quite  as  many  comments 
on  us — not  that  they  can  say  we  are  decollete — as  we  have 
on  them." 

A  diversion  is  here  effected  by  the  depravity  of  Tommy, 
who,  being  dissatisfied  with  his  dinner,  insists  on  saying, 
"  Thank  God  for  my  hasty  pudding ! "  instead  of  the  au- 
thorized form  of  thanksgiving.  He  is  instantly  degraded 
from  his  high  chair,  and  borne  off  wriggling  like  an  eel,  and 
kicking  the  footman's  shins. 

"  Let  us  go  out,"  says  Lenore,  laying  her  hand  on  her 
lover's  coatsleeves,  as  she  passes  out  of  the  dining-room. 
"  Let  us  go  into  the  wood.  I  love  a  wood  in  winter.  I 
love  kicking  the  dead  leaves.  If  you  are  good,  you  shall 
kick  them  too." 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  209 

Five  minutes  later  she  has  joined  him  as  he  stands  in 
the  wintry  garden  puffing  at  his  pipe. 

"  Wait  a  minute  ! "  she  cries,  her  eyes  flashing  gleefully. 
"  Look  at  the  children  going  out  walking.  Did  you  ever 
see  any  thing  so  be-comfortered  and  be-gartered  ?  I  must 
run  and  knock  their  hats  over  their  eyes ! "  She  springs 
away  from  his  side,  and  in  two  seconds  is  back  again.  "  It 
is  such  fun  ! "  she  says,  breathlessly ;  "  it  makes  them  hate 
one  so ! " 

And  now  they  are  in  the  wood ;  above  them  the  high 
brown  boughs  meet  in  wintry  wedlock ;  each  little  pine- 
twig,  no  longer  hid  by  leafage,  asserts  itself,  standing  deli- 
cately out  against  the  softly-travelling,  sad-colored  clouds 
beyond.  Underneath  all  the  trees  dead  children  lie  heaped ; 
there  is  no  wind  to  stir  them.  '  There  they  lie !  One  can 
hardly  tell  one  from  another  now — the  horse-chestnut's 
broad  fan,  the  beech's  pointed  oval,  massed  together  in  one 
bronze-colored  death.  They  are  over  Lenore's  ankles,  as, 
with  all  the  delight  of  a  child,  she  ploughs  through  them, 
kicking  them  up,  laughing,  and  insisting  that  her  lover 
shall  kick  them  too. 

"  What  a  good  smell  they  have  when  one  stirs  them  up ! " 
she  cries ;  "  something  half-pungent !  Smell,  Paul,  smell ! " 
Paul  obeys,  and  stands  docilely  inhaling  the  autumnal  odor. 
"  And  now,"  she  says,  clasping  her  two  hands  round  his 
arm,  leaning  a  very  considerable  weight  upon  him  as  they 
again  pace  slowly  onward,  "  talk  a  great  deal.  I  seem 
hardly  to  have  heard  your  real  voice  yet ;  yesterday  was 
all  church  and  plum-pudding  and  scolding,  and  to-day  we 
have  done  nothing  but  dissect  the  Websters.  Talk  !  talk  J 
talk ! " 

"  How  can  I  talk  ?  "  he  says,  laughing.  "  You  will  not 
let  me  get  a  word  in  edgeways." 

"  Tell  me  all  about  every  thing,"  she  says,  comprehen- 


210  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

sively.  "  Begin  at  the  beginning,  like  a  story — at  the  very 
moment  you  stepped  off  the  Dinan  boat — letters  go  for 
nothing.  Were  you  very  sea-sick  ?  I  believe  you  were, 
though  you  would  not  own  it." 

"Frightfully,  since  you  insist  upon  it,"  replied  Le 
Mesurier,  with  a  mendacious  smile.  "  I  lay  on  deck  on 
the  small  of  my  back,  with  a  livid  face,  praying  for  ship- 
wreck— that  is  the  right  feeling,  is  not  it  ? — while,  to  add 
to  my  sufferings,  everybody  kept  stumbling  over  my  legs." 

"  And  when  you  got  home,"  continues  the  girl,  eagerly, 
taking  this  statement  for  what  it  is  worth,  "  were  they  all 
very  glad  to  see  you  ?  Did  they  all  rush  out  to  the  door 
to  meet  you  ?  " 

"  The  butler  came  out,  I  believe ;  I  do  not  think  that 
even  he  ran  /  certainly  no  one  else  did." 

"And  when  they  saw  you"  (speaking  very  rapidly), 
"how  did  they  look?  Did  they  look  odd?  What  did 
they  say  to  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know ;  much  the  same  as  they  always  say 
— nothing  different — why  should  they  ?  they  did  not  know 
any  thing  then  /  they  said,  '  Oh,  here  you  are  ! '  or  some- 
thing equally  brilliant ;  and  my  father  said :  '  For  God's 
sake,  do  not  touch  me  !  I  have  got  it  in  both  hands.'  He 
meant  the  gout." 

"  And  then  you  kissed  them  all,"  says  Lenore,  a  little 
envious  at  this  part  of  the  programme.  "  Do  you  kiss 
your  father  ?  Some  grown-up  men  do." 

"Do  they?"  replies  Paul,  grimly.  "How  very  un- 
pleasant for  both  parties !  No ;  I  do  not,  certainly." 

"  And — and  was  there  no  one  there  besides  just  your 
own  people — just  your  father  and  sisters  ?  "  asks  Lenore, 
with  wily  suavity. 

"  My  cousin,  of  course  "  (with  a  tone  of  airy  noncha- 
lance}. 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  211 

"  And  "  (laughing  not  quite  so  easily  as  before) — "  and 
what  was  she  doing  ?  " 

"  My  dear  soul "  (with  slight  symptoms  of  impatience), 
"  it  is  six  months  ago;  how  the  mischief  can  I  remember?" 
— then,  seeing  her  countenance  fall  a  little — "  stitching,  I 
fancy ;  making  a  flannel  petticoat  for  some  old  woman." 

"  Which  she  ostentatiously  thrust  into  a  cupboard  the 
moment  you  appeared,"  says  Lenore,  sarcastically,  turning 
down  the  little  red  corners  of  her  mouth — 

"  '  Did  good  by  stealth,  and  blushed  to  find  it  fame.' " 

Paul  lets  this  thrust  pass  in  silence. 
"  And  did  you  bring  me  on  the  tapis  that  night,  or  did 
you  keep  me  till  next  morning  ?  "  (looking  anxiously  up  in 
his  face). 

"  I  kept  you  for  several  days,"  he  answers,  smiling — 
"  very  much  against  my  will,  I  can  tell  you ;  but  I  knew 
that,  as  long  as  IT  remained  in  his  hands,  there  was  no  use 
broaching  the  subject." 

"  But  the  girls  had  not  the  gout ! — you  told  them,  did 
not  you  ?  "  (with  great  animation). 

vPaul  looks  down,  and  his  expression  is  embarrassed. 

«  Yes,"  he  says,  slowly,  "  I  did." 

"  And  showed  them  my  photograph  ?  " 

"Ye— es." 

"  I  hope  you  told  them  that  my  hair  was  not  so  dark  as 
it  looks  there  "  (very  anxiously).  "  Did  not  they  think  it 
pretty  ?  Did  not  they  say  what  a  good  figure  I  must 
have?" 

"  I  dare  say  they  would  not  have  thought  it  polite  to 
make  personal  remarks  about  you  to  me,"  Paul  answers, 
looking  thoroughly  confused ;  "  and  they  never  are  girls  to 
say  civil  things,  don't  you  know  ?  " 

Lenore  puts  up  one  dog-skin-gloved  hand  and  hides  her 


212  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

mouth ;  it  is  the  mouth  that,  in  its  altered  and  quivering 
lines,  betrays  mortification  most. 

"  Did  not  they — did  not  they  say  any  thing  f  "  she 
asks,  in  a  blank  voice. 

"  They  looked  at  the  name  of  the  photographer  on  the 
back,"  he  answers,  with  a  smile  of  recollected  annoyance, 
"and  said,  'Oh,  yes;  he  was  a  good  man,  they  knew.7  I 
remember  that,  because  it  made  me  so  savage." 

"  And — and  your  cousin — what  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  She  was  not  there." 

"  But — but  when  you  told  her  you  were  going  to  be 
married — what  did  she  say  then  f  " 

"  Pshaw ! "  cries  he,  impatiently,  reddening  slightly. 
"  What  extraordinary  questions  you  do  ask  !  What  can  it 
matter  to  you  or  me  either  what  she  said  ?  She  said  the 
— the — usual  thing,  I  suppose  "  (turning  his  head  half-way, 
and  viciously  knocking  a  big  fungus-head  off  with  his  stick). 

"  I  do  not  believe  a  word  of.  it !  "  cries  Lenore,  in  a  fury. 
"  Why  do  you  hate  talking  about  her  ?  Why  do  you 
always  slide  away  from  the  subject  when  I  lead  to  it? 
You  do  not  look  as  if  you  were  telling  truth !  I  believe 
she — she — she — wanted  to  marry  you  herself." 

Sometimes  the  innocent  wear  the  pale  livery  of  guilt, 
by  some  ingenious  freak  of  nature.  At  this  audacious 
statement  Paul  certainly  looks  whiter  than  his  wont. 

'•You  are  talking  nonsense,"  he  says,  brusquely; 
"  childish,  unladylike  nonsense,"  and,  so  speaking,  he  drops 
her  arm,  and  stalks  on  by  himself. 

She  rustles  after  him  through  the  dead  leaves,  half  peni- 
tent, half  suspicious,  till  they  reach  a  stile  that  gives  egress 
from  the  wood  into  a  meadow — a  December  meadow — a 
very  different  matter  from  one  of  June's  buttercup  gardens 
— a  meadow  flowerless,  gray-colored,  and  drenched.  There, 
having  overtaken  him,  she  lays  a  hand  on  each  of  his  arms. 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  213 

"  Why  will  you  insist  on  rousing  my  devil  ?  "  she  says, 
impulsively.  "  Do  you  do  it  on  purpose  ?  I  do  not  know 
whether  other  women  have  a  devil,  but  I  have,  I  know." 

"  It  is  so  remarkably  easily  roused,"  he  answers,  drily. 

"  There  is  not  a  gooder  woman  in  the  world  than  I  am 
sometimes,"  she  continues,  naively.  "  Why  will  not  you 
let  me  always  be  ?  " 

"  Let  you,"  he  repeats,  laughing,  a  little  ironically,  but 
looking  down  with  a  mollified  expression  at  her  repentant, 
fond  face,  freshened  by  the  cool,  moist  wind.  "  I  am  sure  I 
do  not  know  what  I  do  to  hinder  you ;  I  wish  to  Heaven 
you  would  be ! " 


CHAPTER  VI. 

WHAT     JEMIMA     SAYS. 

THAT  evening,  Fate,  in  the  shape  of  a  sleek  little  widow, 
wills  that  we  shall  have  a  small  dinner-party.  We  should 
all  have  much  preferred  to  have  kept  to  our  family  circle, 
and,  lounging  in  our  chairs,  have  wooed  little  contraband 
sleeps,  in  recollection  of  our  last  night's  fatigues,  and  prep- 
arations for  those  of  the  next.  But  Sylvia  is  obdurate. 
"  Say  what  you  please,"  she  says,  pronouncing  each  word 
very  distinctly.  "  Call  me  a  prude  if  you  like — it  will  not 
be  the  first  time — I  cannot  help  it,  but  it  does  feel  so  odd, 
we  three  quite  young  women  sitting  down  and  hobnobbing 
with  those  two  young  men ;  nobody  belonging  to  anybody 
else,  don't  you  know." 

"  I  beg  to  say  I  do  belong  to  somebody,"  interrupts  Le- 
nore,  holding  up  her  head. 

"  I  am  sure  nobody  can  feel  more  kind  and  sisterly  than 


214  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

I  do  to  Paul,"  continues  Sylvia,  with  an  air  of  conscious 
modest  merit ;  "  but  still  there  is  no  use  denying  that  he  is 
a  comparative  stranger,  and  I  confess  I  should  like  him  to 
see  that  we  have  some  idea  of  civilization." 

So,  to  prove  our  civilization,  we  enlarge  our  little  circle 
by  the  addition  of*  the  three  Websters,  of  a  couple  of  stray 
marauding  girls,  and  of  three  diffident  foot-soldiers  from 
the Barracks. 

"  We  used  to  have  really  nice  regiments  always," 
Sylvia  says,  in  apology  for  these  poor  young  gentlemen, 
before  their  arrival,  as  she  stands  with  one  round  white 
elbow  leaning  on  the  mantle-piece,  looking  up  with  her 
large  appealing  eyes  to  Paul — Sylvia's  eyes  have  appealed 
and  besought  and  implored  all  their  life,  but  what  for,  no- 
body ever  could  make  out — "really  nice  regiments — the 
Enniskillens,  and  the  9th  Lancers,  don't  you  know ;  but 
now  we  have  only  those  nasty  walking  things." 

Paul  laughs  :  "  I  like  nasty  walking  things ;  I  was  one 
myself." 

There  are  no  mistakes  as  to  pairing  to-day.  I,  who 
have  no  claim  upon  anybody — I,  to  whom  it  is  absolutely 
indifferent  who  leads  me,  so  that  I  ultimately  reach  the 
savory  haven  of  dinner,  and  Mr.  Scrope,  who  also  has  no 
right  to  anybody  present,  march  in  together.  During  soup 
he  tries  to  make  feverish  and  unnatural  love  to  me,  which 
I  rightly  attribute  to  the  fact  of  Lenore's  blue  ribbons  and 
sweet  peas  being  fluttering  and  flowering  opposite ;  but,  as 
I  indignantly  decline  to  be  the  victim  of  any  such  impos- 
ture, he  relapses  into  a  sulky  silence,  and  I  into  my  usual 
trite  vein  of  moralizing. 

If  people  could  but  hear  the  comments  made  on  them  1 
For  instance,  if  Miss  Webster  had  but  lurked  behind  the 
window-curtains  at  luncheon  to-day,  how  clothed  and  low- 
ered and  quiet  would  her  shoulders  be  !  I  look :  they  are 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  215 

still  playfully  shrugged  and  lifted  in  all  their  lean  and  vir- 
gin nakedness. 

It  is  evening.  Tea  has  reunited  those  whom  claret 
parted.  The  footmen  have  wheeled  in  the  card-table,  and 
are  now  clearing  another  table  for  a  round  game — that 
noisy  refuge  of  those  who  cannot  talk — whereat  loud  and 
inarticulate  sounds,  like  to  the  bray  of  the  ass,  the  shrill 
clucking  and  calling  of  a  distracted  hen-roost,  take  the 
place  of  low-voiced  and  rational  conversation.  "We  are  all 
making  our  selection  between  the  two  games :  there  are 
far  more  candidates  for  the  boisterous  mirth  of  the  one, 
than  for  the  silent  dignity  of  the  other.  The  infantry,  and 
their  attendant  houris,  the  Websters,  in  short,  all  the 
cxternes,  distinctly  decline  a  rubber. 

Major  Webster  has  arrived  at  the  age  when  a  man  in- 
sists on  being  classed  among  "  the  young  people."  Being 
ten  years  his  sister's  senior,  he  is  almost  as  old  for  a  man 
as  she  for  a  woman.  He  likes  to  get  near  the  youngest 
girl  in  the  company — he  loves  bread-and-butter,  that  surest 
sign  of  advancing  age — to  bank  with  her,  look  over  her 
cards,  and  tell  her  all  about  himself.  Paul  chooses  whist : 
I  am  amused  to  hear  Lenore  (the  amount  of  whose  knowl- 
edge of  the  game  I  am  acquainted  with)  follows  suit.  Mr. 
Scrope  does  the  same ;  so  does  Sylvia.  As  for  me,  I  am 
nobody.  I  have  been  a  spectator  all  my  life.  I  am  a  spec- 
tator still.  Lenore  has  walked  over  to  a  cabinet,  close  to 
where  I  am  sitting,  to  look  for  some  whist-markers.  Scrope 
has  followed  her  on  the  same  pretence. 

"  Why  do  not  you  join  the  round  game  ?  "  I  hear  her 
ask  him  hurriedly,  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  wish  you  would — 
three-lived  commerce  and  a  pony — just  the  game  for  a  nice 
little  school-boy." 

"  Just "  (flushing  a  little  and  looking  rather  mulish). 

"  Do  I  there's  a  good  boy !  "  she  says  almost  implor- 
ingly ;  "  I'm  really  in  earnest." 


216  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

"  I  will  play  bezique,  if  you  like,"  he  says,  eagerly ;  "  let 
me  get  the  little  round  table  ;  you  shall  deal  every  time." 

She  does  not  speak  in  answer,  but  only  turns  down  the 
corners  of  her  mouth,  with  an  expression  of  the  completest 
scorn. 

"  What  are  you  two  whispering  about  over  there  ? " 
cries  Sylvia,  playfully,  from  the  table  ;  "  no  whispering  al- 
lowed !  " 

"  Let  us  cut  for  partners,"  says  Scrope,  eagerly  ad- 
vancing. 

"  It  is  not  much  use,"  replies  Lenore,  bluntly ;  "  for, 
whoever  I  cut  with,  I  mean  to  play  with  Paul." 

They  begin.  It  is  Sylvia's  deal — Lenore  to  lead.  It  is 
some  time  before  she  realizes  this  fact. 

"  Oh  !  is  it  me?  What  a  bore  !  What  on  earth  shall 
I  play  ?  I  have  no  more  idea — Paul,  I  wish  you  would 
suggest  something  ?  " 

Paul  looks  resolutely,  gravely  impenetrable. 

"  When  in  doubt,  play  trumps ! "  suggests  Scrope, 
laughing. 

"  Trumps?"  (with  a  expression  of  profound  contempt). 
"  Very  likely ! — as  if  I  did  not  know  that  one  ought  al- 
ways to  keep  them  to  the  very  end !  " 

Having  half-played  several  cards,  and  withdrawn  them 
— having  gazed  imploringly  at  Paul,  who  ill-naturedly  will 
not  lift  his  eyes — having  tried  to  look  over  Scrope's  hand, 
she  at  length  embarks  on  the  ace  of  diamonds.  The  others 
play  little  ones  to  it,  and  the  trick  is  hers. 

"  Oh  !  it  is  mine  again,  is  it  ?  "  (with  a  tone  of  annoy- 
ance). "  If  I  had  thought  of  that,  I  would  not  have  played 
it.  Now  it  is  all  to  come  over  again.  I  suppose  "  (look- 
ing vaguely  round  for  counsel)  "  that  it  is  not  a  bad  plan 
to  play  all  one's  big  ones  out  first,  is  it  ?  " 

Paul  conscientiously  tries  to  veil  the  expression  of  ex- 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  217 

treme  dissent  that  this  proposition  calls  into  his  counte- 
nance, and  so  successfully,  that  the  ace  of  hearts  instantly 
and  confidently  follows  his  brother.  He  is  succeeded  by 
the  ace  of  spades. 

"  You  have  every  ace  in  the  pack,"  Sylvia  says,  pet- 
tishly. 

"  That  I  have  not ! "  answers  Lenore,  glancing  up  with 
a  mischievious  gayety  at  Scrope.  "  You  know  better  than 
that,  do  not  you,  Charlie  ?  " 

At  the  unnecessary  and  illegal  candor  displayed  by  the 
first  half  of  the  sentence,  Paul  shudders  slightly ;  but,  at 
the  familiar  abbreviation  of  his  friend's  name,  he  forgets  all 
about  his  cards.  He  would  not  look  at  his  betrothed  be- 
fore, when  she  sought  mute  counsel  from  him.  He  looks 
at  her  quickly  enough  now,  with  an  expression  of  the  most 
unfeigned,  displeased  surprise.  But,  unluckily,  she  does 
not  see  it.  Her  gaze  has  strayed  to  the  other  table,  and 
she  is  whispering  to  Scrope. 

"  Look  at  the  major — we  always  call  him  '  The  major,' 
as  if  there  was  only  one  in  the  world.  He  is  telling  that 
little  miss  beside  him  how  a  cricket-ball  once  hit  him  in 
the  left  eye,  and  asking  her  to  look  in  and  see  the  mark." 

"  How  on  earth  can  you  tell  at  this  distance  ?  "  asks 
Scrope,  eagerly,  answering  in  the  same  tone,  and  playing 
at  hap-hazard  the  first  card  that  comes. 

"  I  know  his  little  ways,"  she  says,  laughing.  "  Once 
I  used  to  be  invited  to  look  into  his  eye.  "Ah!  c  Nous 
avons  change  tout  celaS  I  am  too  old  now." 

"  Would  you  mind  going  on  when  you  are  quite 
ready  ? "  Paul  asks,  with  an  extreme  politeness  of  tone  a 
little  contradicted  by  the  unamiable  expression  of  his  coun- 
tenance. Let  those  who  blame  him  recollect  that  he  loved 
strict  whist,  and  the  rules  of  the  game,  with  a  love  hardly 
inferior  to  that  of  the  renowned  Mrs,  Battle, 
10 


218  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  My  turn  !  "  cries  Lenore,  returning  to  the  considera- 
tion of  her  cards.  "  You  do  not  say  so  !  It  is  always  my 
turn.  Now  what  next  ?  Have  spades  ever  been  out  be- 
fore ?  Surely  not." 

She  herself,  as  I  have  before  observed,  led  the  ace  three 
minutes  ago,  and  Sylvia  threw  away  her  queen  on  it.  She 
now  boldly  advances  her  king,  which  is  naturally  trumped. 
At  this  catastrophe  she  expresses  the  extremest  surprise, 
which  she  calls  upon  Paul  to  share.  In  another  quarter 
of  an  hour,  not  only  the  game,  but  the  rubber  is  ended. 

"  Absolutely  thrown  away  !  "  cries  Paul,  tossing  down 
his  last  card,  with  a  gesture  of  unrestrained  irritation. 
"  Two  by  honors,  and  excellent  playing-cards !  It  is 
enough  to  make  a  saint  swear !  " 

"  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  ?  "  cried  Lenore  red- 
dening. "  I  am  sure  I  did  nothing  wrong,  did  I  ?  "  (ap- 
pealing to  her  adversaries).  "  I  did  not  revoke,  and  I 
returned  his  lead  whenever  I  remembered  what  it  was,  and 
I  led  out  all  my  big  things.  One  cannot  expect  too  much 
with  those  little  nasty  twos  and  threes  ! " 

"  Let  us  change  partners,"  cries  Scrope,  his  broad  blue 
eyes  flashing  eagerly.  "  I  am  the  worst  player  in  Eu- 
rope." 

"  By  all  means,"  says  Lenore,  with  empressement,  glar- 
ing angrily  across  at  Paul,  though  there  are  tears  in  her 
treacherous  eyes.  "  I  should  like  nothing  better." 

"lVbt  for  worlds  !  "  says  Sylvia,  with  a  little  emphasis 
on  the  words,  rising,  and  gathering  together  her  gloves, 
fan,  and  scent-bottle.  "  I  would  not  expose  my  poor  little 
manoeuvres  to  Paul's  criticism  for  any  earthly  considera- 
tion ;  I  do  not  mind  you  /  you  are  a  child ;  you  are  no- 
body/" 

The  guests  are  gone — "  Good-night  time  "  has  come — 
we  discreetly  issue  forth  into  the  hall,  and  drink  claret  and 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SATS.  219 

sherry-and-water,  while  Paul  and  Lenore  are  saying  it  in 
the  drawing-room.  They  do  not,  however,  speak  very  low, 
as  I  overhear  them. 

"  One  thing  is  certain,  Paul,"  says  Lenore,  playfully, 
but  with  a  sort  of  uneasy  dignity  in  her  tone,  "  and  that  is, 
that,  when  we  are  married,  we  will  not  play  cards ;  I  wish 
you  would  not  be  cross  to  me  before  people.  I  do  not 
mind  when  we  are  by  ourselves." 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  call  men  by  their  Christian 
names  under  my  very  nose,"  Paul  answers,  in  a  tone  that 
sounds  half  jealous,  half  ashamed. 

"  Do  you  ?  "  (rather  coquettishly). 

"  Lenore,  how  many  men  do  you  call  by  their  Christian 
names  ?  " 

She  laughs  mischievously.  "  Ever  so  many ;  but  I  only 
do  as  I  am  done  by ;  almost  every  man  I  know  calls  me 
Lenore.  No  !  no  ! !  no  ! ! ! "  (her  tone  suddenly  changing 
to  one  of  repentant  alarm) ;  "  do  not  look  so  furious — I  am 
only  joking;  nobody  does  that  I  am  aware  of — hardly  any- 
body!" 


CHAPTER   VII. 

WHAT     JEMIMA     SAYS. 

"A  CHILD  might  play  with  me  to-night,  I  feel  so  bland," 
says  Lenore.  "Tommy,  Bobby,  now  is  your  time;  never, 
probably,  will  you  find  Aunty  Lenore  in  such  a  frame  of 
mind  again;  drive  her  hair-pins  into  her  skull,  throttle 
her  with  your  fat  arms,  ride  rough-shod  over  her  prostrate 
body ;  she  will  not  utter  a  groan ! " 

It  is  the  day  following  Sylvia's  dinner-party.  Lenore 
is  sitting  on  the  white  hearth-rug  of  our  sister's  boudoir, 


220  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

an  immoral-looking  little  up-stairs  room.  Looped  rose 
curtains  ;  lazily  low  chairs  ;  mirrors  gleaming  through  fes- 
tooned white  muslin;  flowers  that  give  out  their  scent 
delicately  yet  heavily  to  the  warmed  air ;  and  outside  the 
storm-rain  scouring  the  pane,  and  the  wind  shaking  the 
shutters  with  its  strong,  rude  hands.  "  Had  ever  any  one 
better  cause  to  be  happy  than  I  ?  "  says  the  girl,  while  her 
eyes  dance  in  the  firelight.  "  I  am  nineteen,  I  am  hand- 
some, I  am  going  to  a  ball,  and  shall  dance  all  night,  and 
eat  ices,  and  sit  in  corners  with  the  dearest  fellow  in  all 
the  world,  who  is  extremely  pleased  with  me." 

"  Instinct  tells  me  that  he  dances  like  a  pair  of  tongs," 
reply  I,  amiably. 

Lenore  reddens. 

"  Poor  Jemima ! "  she  says,  with  a  sort  of  resentful 
pity.  "  No  wonder  you  say  spiteful  things !  You  are 
twenty-nine ;  you  are  first  with  nobody  !  liow  can  you  bear 
to  go  on  living  ?  what  can  you  have  to  think  about  all  day 
and  all  night?" 

"  Think  about ! "  repeat  I,  cynically.  "  Oh !  I  do  not 
know.  Sometimes  my  latter  end,  and  sometimes  my  din- 
ner." 

"  Poor  old  Jemima  !  " 

"  It  is  a  mercy,"  continue  I,  reflectively,  "  that  one's 
palate  outlives  one's  heart  •  one  can  still  relish  red  mullet 
when  one  has  lost  all  appetite  for  moonshine." 

"  Bravo,  Miss  Herrick,"  cries  a  voice,  as  Scrope  emerges 
from  behind  the  portiere,  which  hides  a  little  inner  room, 
and  lounges  with  something  of  his  old  sleepy  manner  to 
the  fire.  We  both  start. 

"  Who  gave  you  leave  to  come  here  ? "  asks  Lenore, 
sharply.  "  Why  did  not  you  cough,  or  sneeze,  or  sigh,  to 
let  us  know  you  were  there,  instead  of  meanly  listening  to 
all  we  had  to  say  ?  " 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  221 

"Neither  of  you  said  any  thing  either  confidential,  or 
that  demanded  contradiction,"  replies  the  young  man, 
leaning  his  back  against  the  chimney-piece,  and  looking 
down  with  insouciant  defiance  on  the  girl  at  his  feet. 
"  You,  Miss  Lenore,  modestly  observed  that  you  were 
nineteen  and  very  handsome,  while  Miss  Jemima  remarked 
that  red  mullet  were  better  than  moonshine,  and  that  Le 
Mesurier  danced  like  a  pair  of  tongs ;  in  both  cases  I  have 
the  good  fortune  to  agree  with  her." 

"  You  have,  have  you  ?  " 

"  You  are  wasting  all  the  life  out  of  that  bit  of  deutzia 
in  your  dress,"  says  the  young  man,  indicating  with  a 
slight  motion  of  the  hand  the  white  flower  that,  resting  on 
Lenore's  breast,  contrasts  the  dark  folds  of  her  serge  gown ; 
"  suppose  you  give  it  to  me  ?  " 

"  Suppose  I  do  not ! " 

"  You  will  really,  won't  you  ? "  (stooping  forward  a 
little,  and  stretching  out  his  hand  to  receive  the  demanded 

gift). 

"  Most  certainty  not !  " 

"  All  right !  "  (resuming  his  former  position,  and  speak- 
ing with  languid  indifference)  ;  "  it  is  a  half-withered  little 
vegetable,  and  I  am  not  sure  that  I  would  take  it  now  if 
you  offered  it  me ;  but  all  the  same,  I  have  a  conviction 
that  before  the  evening  is  over  it  will  be  mine." 

"You  have,  have  you?"  cries  Lenore,  with  flashing 
eyes ;  "  sooner  than  that  you  should  ever  have  it — look 
here ! " 

She  runs  to  the  window,  unbolts  the  shutters,  and 
opening  the  casement  throws  the  flower  out  into  the  wild 
sleet.  Thrice  the  winter's  cold  gust  drives  it  back  against 
her,  but  the  third  time  it  disappears.  Then  she  shuts  the 
window,  and  returns  to  the  fire. 

"  What  a  fine  thing  it  is  to  have  a  spirit ! "  says  Scrope, 


222  "GOOD-BYB)  SWEETHEART!" 

walking  to  the  door.  He  does  not  look  particularly  vexed, 
but  his  cheek  is  flushed. 

When  he  is  gone,  I  retire  behind  the  portiere  to  write 
letters;  Lenore  maintains  her  former  position,  thinking, 
smiling  to  herself,  and  curling  the  pug's  tight  fawn  tail 
round  her  fingers.  In  about  ten  minutes  the  door  reopens, 
and  Mr.  Scrope  again  enters.  His  boots  are  miry,  his 
shooting-coat  is  drenched,  large  rain-drops  shine  and  glisten 
on  his  bare  gold  curls,  but  in  his  hand  he  holds  the  bit  of 
deutzia,  muddied,  stained,  dispetalled  almost  past  recogni- 
tion, but  still  the  identical  spray  that  floated  out  on  the 
storm-blast  through  the  open  window. 

"  My  presentiments  seldom  deceive  me,"  says  the  young 
man,  advancing  to  the  fire,  speaking  with  his  old  drawl, 
and  wiping  the  luckless  flower  with  his  pocket-handker- 
chief; " feel  how  wet  I  am"  (extending  his  coat-sleeve). 

Silence. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  was  so  long,"  continues  he,  spreading  his 
hands  to  the  blaze  ;  "  but  it  was  ill  work  grubbing  among 
the  dark,  wet  garden-borders ;  the  rain  put  out  my  eyes, 
and  hissed  in  my  ears  ;  but,  don't  you  know,  one  hates  to 
be  beaten." 

I  peep  at  them  through  the  portiere.  Lenore  has  sprung 
to  her  feet,  and  stands  facing  him.  "  Give  it  me  back ! " 
she  cries,  imperiously. 

"  Most  certainly  not,  as  you  tersely  observed  just  now." 

"  Give  it  me  this  instant !  "  with  a  stamp,  advancing  a 
step  nearer,  and  trying  to  snatch  it  out  of  his  hand. 

"  Au  contraire  "  (holding  it  high  above  her  head).  "  I 
mean  to  dry  it  in  silver  paper,  and  inscribe  upon  it,  '  Sou- 
venir from  Miss  Lenore  ! '  " 

"  I  will  give  you  any  other  instead  of  it,"  says  Lenore, 
dropping  her  Xantippe  tone,  and  growing  conciliatory.  "  I 
will  even  fix  it  in  your  coat  to-night.  There ! " 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  223 

"  Thanks.  I  have  contracted  a  particular  penchant  for 
this  one." 

She  does  not  repeat  her  entreaties,  but  I  see  her  face 
working. 

"Why  are  you  so  anxious  to  have  it  back?"  asks 
Scrope,  tormentingly,  standing  close  to  her  on  the  hearth- 
rug ;  "  don't  snatch — it  is  unladylike — it  is  wet,  it  is  limp, 
it  is  deader  than  a  door-nail." 

"  Paul  gave  it  me ! "  cries  the  girl,  bursting  into  a 
storm  of  tears,  "  you  know  he  did ;  and  he  will  be  so 
angry  when  he  sees  you  with  it." 

He  tosses  it  contemptuously  to  her :  "  Take  it !  I 
would  not  have  it  as  a  gift.  You  told  me  once  that  you 
never  cried,  and  this  is  the  second  time  in  two  days  that  I 
have  seen  you  in  tears." 

They  have  forgotten  all  about  me.  He  is  leaning  his 
elbow  on  the  mantel-shelf,  and  staring  morosely  at  her,  as 
she  wipes  her  eyes. 

"  The  second  time ! "  (looking  up  at  him  with  the  tears 
still  sparkling  on  her  lashes).  "  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  I  did  not  see  your  red  eyes  at  luncheon, 
yesterday  ?  "  asks  Scrope,  scornfully.  "  You  sat  with  your 
back  to  the  light,  and  laughed  more  than  usual,  but  you 
did  not  deceive  me." 

She  turns  half  away,  looking  put  out  at  the  accusation, 
which  she  is  unable  to  rebut. 

"  What  had  you  been  quarrelling  about  ?  "  asks  the 
young  man,  eagerly ;  "  as  usual,  about  me  f  " 

"  You  are  right,"  she  answers,  turning  her  great  angry 
gray  eyes  upon  him ;  "  it  was  about  you ;  it  is  always  about 
you ;  if  it  were  not  for  you,  we  should  never  have  a  word ! 
Why  do  you  insist  on  thrusting  yourself  between  him  and 
me  ?  Why  do  you  not  go  away  ?  There  are  a  dozen  other 
places  where,  I  dare  say,  you  would  be  welcome.  Why 


224  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

cannot  you  leave  this  one,  where  you  must  see  that  you 
are  in  the  way  ?  " 

"  May  I  ask  how  ? "  His  voice  is  cold,  but  it  is  the 
cold  of  strangled  emotion. 

"  Did  not  I  tell  you  a  hundred  times,  at  Dinan,  what  a 
bore  and  a  nuisance  I  thought  you  ?  "  asks  the  girl,  half  in 
bitter  jest,  half  in  earnest.  "  Why  do  you  make  me  say 
these  rude  things  to  you  over  again  ?  " 

He  looks  at  her  steadfastly.  "  You  mean  them  now  ; 
you  did  not  mean  them  then." 

"  Did  not  I  ?  "  (indignantly) ;  "  ask  Jemima." 

"  Lenore  "  (his  lips  growing  white),  "  you  said  '  go,'  but, 
as  I  stand  here,  I  swear  your  eyes  said  *  stay.' " 

"  They  did  not ! "  she  cries,  passionately  ;  "  they  newer 
did ;  if  they  had — if  they  ever  had  been  so  unfaithful  to 
him,  I  would  have  torn  them  out  ?  " 

"  Did  you  think  me  a  bore  and  a  nuisance  when  I  lay 
at  your  feet  those  summer  mornings  under  the  chestnuts 
on  Mont  Parnasse,  and  read  '  Manfred'  to  you?" 

"  That  I  did,"  she  answers,  with  vicious  emphasis. 
"  Why,  I  slept  half  the  time,  and  dislocated  my  jaw  with 
yawning  the  other  half !  Not  one  man  in  a  hundred  can 
read  poetry,  and  you  "  (bursting  out  into  angry  laughter) 
— "  you  rolled  your  IV s,  and  ranted  with  the  best  of  them." 

Mr.  Scrope  turns  sharply  away,  to  hide  his  bitter  mor- 
tification. 

"  Why  do  not  you  go  ? "  continues  Lenore,  with  her 
startling  candor ;  "  it  cannot  be  very  amusing  to  you  being 
here  now  ;  the  partridges  are  so  wild  that  you  cannot  get 
near  them,  and  Sylvia  never  has  any  pheasants — go ! 
got* 

Again  he  turns  and  faces  her.  "  Are  you  serious  ? " 
he  says,  while  all  his  boyish  face  twitches.  "  I  know  you 
never  stick  at  saying  any  thing  that  will  hurt  your  fellow- 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  225 

creatures'  feelings,  but  do  you  really  mean  that  you  wish 
me  to  leave  this  house  ?  " 

"  I  do,  distinctly." 

"  That  the  sight  of  me  takes  away  your  appetite,  or  his, 
which  is  it  ?  " 

"  Both." 

"  Miss  Lenore  "  (dropping  his  sneering  tone,  and  try- 
ing to  take  her  hand),  "  I  have  been  impertinent  to  you. 
I  own  it.  I  had  no  right  to  sneer  at  him  behind  his  back 
— it  was  mean  and  womanish  of  me ;  but — but — you  were 
a  little  friendly  to  me  at  Dinan,  and  it  is  hard  to  be  shelved 
all  in  a  minute." 

"  At  Dinan  you  were  never  any  thing  more  than  a  pis 
atter." 

"If  I  promise  never  to  address  you  unless  you  first 
speak  to  me,"  says  the  young  fellow,  entreatingly ;  "  not 
to  look  at  you  more  than  I  can  help  ;  to  be  no  more  to  you 
than  the  footman  who  hands  you  soup,  will  you  let  me  stay 
then  ?  " 

"  Fiddlesticks  !  "  replies  she,  with  plain  common-sense  ; 
"  nobody  can  efface  himself  in  the  way  you  describe  ;  stay- 
ing in  the  house  with  a  person,  one  must  be  brought  into 
constant  contact  with  him.  I  say  again — I  say  it  three 
times — go  !  GO  !  GO  !  " 

"I  will  go,  then,"  answers  Scrope,  steadying  his  voice 
with  a  great  effort,  and  speaking  with  cold  quiet ;  "  but  I 
will  not  go  unpaid.  Yes  ;  I  will  go,  but  on  one  only  con- 
dition." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  That  you  dance  with  me  to-night — not  a  beggarly  once, 
as  you  might  with  Webster,  or  any  other  bowing  acquaint- 
ance, but  three — -four  times." 

"  I  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind  ;  I  will  have  no  bargain- 
ing with  you,"  replies  Lenore,  with  dignity. 


226  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  Then  I  will  stay !  "  cries  Scrope,  with  angry  excite- 
ment. "  Miss  Lenore,  it  is  not  your  house ;  you  cannot 
have  me  turned  out-of-doors,  much  as  you  would  wish  it. 
Eyesore  as  I  am  to  you,  I  will  stay !  " 

"  Do !  "  she  says,  with  a  contemptuous  sneer ;  "  it  will 
be  a  gentlemanlike  act,  of  a  piece  with  the  rest  of  your 
conduct." 

("  That  was  a  nasty  one,"  think  I,  from  behind  the  por- 
tidre.) 

There  is  a  moment's  silence. 

"  Say  no  more  bitter  things,"  says  Scrope,  in  a  changed, 
rough  voice ;  "  if  you  tried  from  now  till  the  Judgment- 
day,  you  never  could  beat  that  last ;  and  the  worst  of  it  is 
that  it  was  true — it  was  ungentlemanlike ;  but,  when  one 
has  gone  mad,  one  is  not  particular  about  one's  manners,  as 
perhaps  you  will  discover  some  fine  day." 

Lenore  is  silent. 

"  Make  your  mind  easy,  I  will  go — to-night,  if  you 
wish." 

"  There  is  no  such  wonderful  hurry ;  to-morrow  will  do 
perfectly." 

"  To-morrow,  then." 

"Thanks." 

"  Lenore  "  (speaking  with  cutting  emphasis),  "  you  are 
the  handsomest  woman  in  the  warld,  and  the  one  who  has 
the  knack  of  saying  the  nastiest  things.  If  your  face  drives 
men  mad,  your  tongue  brings  them  back  to  sanity  pretty 
quickly.  Other  women's  sharp  speeches  pour  off  one  like 
water ;  yours  bite  and  sting." 

"  Perhaps  "  (indifferently). 

A  little  stillness. 

Again  I  peep.  Scrope  has  sat  down  by  the  table ;  his 
elbows  rest  on  the  Utrecht-velvet  cover,  among  all  Sylvia's 
silly  little  knick-knacks  ;  his  hands  shade  his  face. 


WHAT  JEMIMA   SAYS.  227 

"  Don't  look  so  tragic,"  says  my  sister,  in  a  mollified 
voice,  sidling  up  to  him.  "I  own  that  I  thought  of  myself 
first  •  I  always  do ;  it  is  my  way ;  but,  if  you  could  have 
sense  to  perceive  it,  you  would  see  that  it  is  quite  as  much 
for  your  interest  as  mine  that  you  should  go.  My  dear 
boy  "  (laying  her  hand  on  his  coat-sleeve),  "  I  have  a  horri- 
ble suspicion  that  you  are  crying  !  Please  disabuse  me  of 
it." 

"Nothing  is  further  from  my  thoughts,"  says  Scrope, 
lifting  his  head  and  showing  his  beautiful  face,  undisfigured, 
indeed,  by  tears,  but  paled  and  altered  by  anger  and  pain. 
"  Good  God  ! "  (looking  at  her  fiercely)  "  a  man  would  be  a 
fool  to  cry  about  you.  Would  you  ever  cease  laughing  and 
jeering  at  him  ?  " 

"  Stop  raving  at  me  !  "  cries  Lenore,  whose  patience  is 
fast  oozing  out.  "  I  have  done  nothing ;  you  have  been  a 
fool,  and  you  must  pay  for  it.  Perhaps  "  (speaking  very 
slowly,  as  if  the  words  were  not  sweet  to  her  lips),  "  I  wish 
to  be  quite  fair — perhaps — at  Dinan — I  helped  you  to  be  so 
—a  little." 

He  does  not  speak. 

"  Charlie  !  look  here  "  (speaking  with  a  soothing,  sister- 
ly tone),  "you  know,  and  I  know,  and  Jemima  knows,  and 
I  am  afraid  Paul  knows,  that  sixty  times  a  day  you  are  on 
the  verge  of  making  a  fool  of  yourself.  Is  not  it  bet- 
ter that  you  should  go,  before  you  tumble  over  the 
verge  ?  " 

"  All  right,"  answers  he,  impatiently,  shaking  off  her 
hand ;  "  I  am  going.  Having  gained  that  point,  I  think 
the  least  you  might  do  is  to  leave  me  alone." 

"  But — but  you  will  come  to  the  ball  to-night  ?  " 

"No"  (very  curtly). 

"  You  must  j  it  will  look  so  odd!  " 

"Odd  it  may  look,  then.     At  the  present  moment" 


228  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

(laughing  disagreeably),  "  my  whole  life  looks  oddly 
enough,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  But  supposing  I  give  you  one  dance,  a  quadrille  ?  " 
(unable,  womanlike,  to  let  well  alone,  and  kneeling  down 
on  the  floor  beside  him). 

"I  would  not  walk  through  a  quadrille  with  you" 
(speaking  very  loftily),  "if  you  were  to  go  down  on  your 
knees  to  me." 

"  As  I  am  doing  at  the  present  moment,"  replies  Lenore, 
laughing.  "  A  waltz,  then  ?  " 

"  Are  you  serious  ?  Do  you  mean  it  ?  "  (catching  hold 
of  her  two  hands,  while  his  eyes  light  up)  "  or  are  you  only 
making  a  fool  of  me,  as  you  have  been  doing  without  inter- 
mission for  the  last  six  months  ?  " 

"  One  never  knows  what  may  happen,"  replies  the  girl, 
oracularly,  already  rather  repenting  her  concession ;  "  per- 
haps— the  fag-end — the  very  fag-end  of  a  galop,  if  you  will 
not  expect  to  take  me  into  tea  afterward." 

"  Do  not !  "  cry  I,  dropping  my  pen,  and  hurrying  from 
my  lurking-place.  "  Lenore,  for  the  first  time  in  your  life, 
take  advice  !  Let  this  poor  boy  go  to-night ! " 

As  I  had  surmised,  they  had  forgotten  my  existence. 
Both  look  at  me  with  the  partial  fondness  with  which  it  is 
usually  an  interloper's  fate  to  be  regarded. 

"  Meddlesome  Matty ! "  cries  my  sister,  with  her  usual 
amenity,  "  who  asked  your  opinion  ?  " 

"  Miss  Jemima,"  says  Scrope,  reproachfully,  "  I  thought 
you  were  my  friend." 

"  So  I  am,"  I  say,  smiling  and  turning  to  him.  "  If  she 
dances  with  you  once,  twice,  a  dozen  times,  to-night,  how 
much  the  better  will  you  be  to-morrow  ?  You  will  have  set 
us  all  by  the  ears,  while  you — "  I  pause. 

Neither  speaks. 

"  It  is  useless  disguising  from  ourselves,"  continue  I, 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SATS.  229 

with  my  usual  excellent  common-sense,  "  that  Paul  will  be 
displeased." 

"Let  him  be  displeased,  then,  if  he  can  be  so  irration- 
al ?  "  cries  Lenore,  cheeks  on  fire,  and  eyes  burning.  "  But 
no !  what  am  I  talking  about  ?  Paul  has  perfect  confidence 
in  me ;  if  I  were  to  dance  all  night  with  Charlie  Scrope,  or 
Charlie  anybody  else,  he  would  not  mind — he  would  under- 
stand." 

"  Time  will  show,"  reply  I,  mystically,  walking  to  the 
door. 

"  I  will  give  you  four  dances,  four  round  ones — there ! " 
says  Lenore,  with  a  brilliant  smile,  and  a  triumphant  glance 
at  me  as  I  leave  the  room.  "  Vogue  la  galore  !  " 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

WHAT     THE     ATJTHOK     SATS. 

IT  is  time  to  go  to  the  ball ;  all  are  ready ;  all  are  in 
the  hall,  save  Lenore.  The  men  have  each  two  pairs  of 
white-kid  gloves  in  their  pocket ;  one  has  plain  gold  studs, 
the  other  diamond  and  black  enamel ;  but,  oh,  how  poor, 
how  small,  are  man's  highest  adornments,  compared  to 
woman's  !  At  his  best,  in  his  dress  of  greatest  ceremony, 
he  is  but  a  scrimping,  black-forked  biped,  compared  to  the 
indefinite  volume,  the  many-colored  majesty,  of  beflounced, 
belaced,  beflowered  woman. 

"  Did  you  tell  her  we  were  all  waiting  ?  "  asks  Sylvia, 
in  a  tone  of  impatience. 

"  I  did,"  replies  Jemima,  stepping  leisurely  down-stairs 
'with  a  large  mat,  which  her  train  has  carried  down  from 
the  upper  regions,  attached  to  her  tail. 


230  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

"  And  what  did  she  say  ?  " 

61  She  said,  <  Hurry  no  man's  cattle  ! '  " 

"  Was  she  nearly  ready  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  What  was  she  doing  ?  " 

"She  was  advancing  and  retreating  before  her  long 
glass,  ascertaining  whether  her  petticoats  were  all  of  a 
length." 

"  There  is  plenty  of  time,"  says  Scrope  ;  "  not  ten  yet. 
I  remember  once  going  to  a  ball  in  the  country,  and  finding 
myself  the  first  person  there.  It  was  an  awful  sensa- 
tion!" 

"  Are  you  sure  that  I  should  not  look  better  with  a 
fichu  f  "  says  Sylvia,  in  an  anxious  aside,  to  her  sister,  get- 
ting out  of  ear-shot  of  the  men,  and  craning  her  throat  to 
get  a  view,  over  her  shoulder-blades,  at  the  back  of  her  own 
neck.  "  Am  I  too  decottetee  behind  ?  You  know  that 
there  is  nothing  in  life  I  have  such  a  horror  of  as  being 
called  a  c  frisky  matron  ! ' " 

"It  does  look  rather  juvenile,  perhaps,"  replies  Jemima, 
unkindly  saying  the  exact  reverse  of  what  she  knows  is 
expected  of  her. 

Sylvia's  countenance  falls  a  little. 

" '  Juvenile  / '  Oh,  that  was  not  what  I  meant  in  the 
least !  I  asked  Charlie  Scrope  what  he  thought "  (smiling 
a  little),  "  and  he  said,  *  You  look  awfully  jolly  ! '  He  said 
it  quite  loud.  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  what  Paul  could 
have  thought.  I  suppose  one  ought  no't  to  have  asked 
him  his  opinion,  poor  boy,  because  he  always  thinks  one 
looks  nice,  whatever  one  has  on." 

"  Does  he?  Jemima  "  (lowering  her  voice,  and  speaking 
with  eager  sincerity),  "  promise  to  tell  me  every  thing  that 
you  hear  anybody  say  of  me  to-night,  and  I  will  promise  to 
tell  you  every  thing  I  hear  anybody  say  of  you. 


WHAT  TEE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  231 

Jemima  does  not  answer;  her  eyes  are  fixed  on  the 
stairs,  on  which  a  vision  has  appeared,  above  whose  head 
two  lady's-maids  are  triumphantly  holding  flat  candlesticks, 
to  aid  the  bright  gas-light  which  is  already  illumining  her 
— a  vision,  like  a  summer-night,  dark,  yet  softly  splendid — 
Lenore,  all  in  black,  with  great  silver  lilies  starring  her 
hair,  shining  on  her  breast,  garlanding  her  skirts.  As  she 
comes  stepping  daintily  down,  she  does  not  look  conscious 
— very  handsome  people  seldom  do ;  it  is  a  prerogative  re- 
served for  faintly  and  doubtfully  pretty  ones.  In  her  hand 
she  carries  a  huge  bouquet  of  white  and  purple  flowers. 
All  stare  at  her ;  but  she  seems  to  see  only  Paul.  She 
goes  straight  up  to  him,  her  eyes  shining  like  soft  lamps, 
and  her  cheeks  all  rosy  with  happiness. 

"  Thank  you  so  much  !  "  she  says,  in  a  low  voice.  "  I 
was  surprised — and  yet  not  surprised — when  Nicholls  came 
to  my  room  and  said,  '  Here's  a  bouquet  for  you,  ma'am.' 
I  knew  in  a  minute,  of  course.  I  did  not  even  take  the 
trouble  to  ask  whom  it  was  from  ;  I  knew,  naturally." 

As  she  talks,  Paul's  complexion  varies,  and  his  counte- 
nance changes ;  but  she  goes  on,  without  giving  him  time 
to  speak : 

"  How  did  you  come  to  know  all  my  favorite  flowers  ? 
Was  it  intuition,  or  did  I  ever  tell  you  ?  I  forget.  Vio- 
lets, Roman  narcissi,  white  hyacinths — all  the  scents  that  I 
am  most  wild  about.  There  "  (holding  up  the  bouquet  to 
his  face),  "you  may  have  one  sniff,  one  little  sniff,  at  it — 
only  a  little  one,  mind  !  " 

"  Lenore,"  says  Paul,  in  a  mortified  voice,  looking  red 
and  miserable,  "  it  was  not  I.  I  know  nothing  about  it. 
To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing ! " 

Had  they  been  alone,  he  would  have  added  fond  apolo- 
gies ;  would  have  told  her — what  was  the  truth — that,  had 
he  thought  they  would  have  given  her  pleasure,  he  would 


232  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

have  bought  her  a  thousand  bouquets,  each  much  bigger 
than  a  haystack;  would  have  sent  to  Kamtchatka  for 
them,  did  bigger,  fairer  flowers  grow  there  than  here ;  but, 
as  three  people  are  by,  his  pride  restrains  him. 

"  JVbt  you  f  "  repeats  Lenore,  in  a  blank  voice,  as  her 
arm  and  the  now  valueless  posy  drop  to  her  side.  "  Who 
was  it,  then  ?  Oh,  of  course  "  (following  Scrope,  who  has 
turned  to  the  fire  to  hide  the  scarlet  tinge  that  has  spread 
from  the  crown  of  his  head  to  the  nape  of  his  neck)  "  it 
was  you  !  I  am  right  this  time !  Thanks  so  much  for  think- 
ing of  me." 

She  stretches  out  her  hand  to  him,  but  her  voice  quivers. 

These  little  disappointments  are  sometimes  acute,  as  a 
needle,  though  but  a  small  weapon,  can  give  a  sharp  prick. 

There  is  nothing  further  to  delay  the  cloaking  and 
shawling,  which  forthwith  takes  place.  Paul  and  Lenore 
stand  together  alone  for  a  minute. 

"  They  have  no  longer  the  same  smell,"  says  the  girl, 
eying  her  nosegay  with  a  disenchanted  look ;  "  the  nar- 
cissi's petals  are  already  beginning  to  yellow  and  the 
maiden-hair  to  shrivel.  Oh,  you  bad,  bad  Paul !  just  as  I 
began  to  think  that  you  must  really  be  getting  a  little  fond 
of  me  ! " 

"  Don't  talk  such  nonsense,"  replies  Paul,  brusquely  ; 
"  cannot  you  see  with  half  an  eye,  that  I  am  in  a  greater 
rage  with  myself  than  you  can  possibly  be  with  me  ?  But 
Lenore  "  (hesitating  a  little),  "  now  that  you  know  that  I 
— fool  that  I  was — did  not  get  it  for  you,  are  you  still  going 
to  take  it  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  am,"  replies  Lenore,  decisively ;  "  though 
it  is  the  bouquet  of  disappointment,  it  gives  a  nice  finish 
to  one's  toilet;  if"  (with  a  coquettish  pout)  "  one  is  not 
provided  with  legitimate  bouquets,  one  must  console  one's 
self  with  illegitimate  ones." 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  233 

It  is  an  Infirmary  Ball ;  one  of  those  balls,  therefore, 
at  which,  in  theory^  gentle  and  simple  meet  and  frolic  with 
happy  equality  and  unity ;  at  which,  in  practice,  the  gen- 
tle glide  gracefully  about  at  the  top  of  the  room,  and  the 
simple  plunge  and  caper  at  the  bottom.  There  is  more 
air,  more  space,  more  every  thing  that  is  desirable,  at  the 
lower  end  near  the  doors,  but  to  remain  at  that  end  is  to 
confess  an  affinity  with  the  butchers,  the  bakers,  the  haber- 
dashers, of  the  good  city  of  Norley.  At  the  expense  of 
any  amount  of  elbowing,  pushing,  bruising,  one  must  work 
one's  way  up  to  where  one's  peers  sit  enthroned  on  red- 
cloth  benches.  They  are  rather  late.  Slowly  they  work 
up.  Paul  escorts  Lenore ;  Scrope,  Sylvia ;  Jemima,  her- 
self. A  galop  is  playing,  and  a  hundred,  two  hundred  peo- 
ple, are  floundering,  flying,  and  bounding  round,  as  Nature 
and  their  dancing-master  have  taught  them.  Little  women 
burying  their  noses  in  big  men's  coat-sleeves  ;  big  women 
trying  not  to  rest  their  chins  on  the  top  of  little  men's 
heads;  men  who  hold  their  partner's  hand  out,  like  a 
pump-handle,  sawing  the  air  with  it  up  and  down ;  men 
who  hold  their  partner's  hand  on  their  own  hip,  describing 
an  acute  angle  with  the  elbow ;  men  who  hug  their  part- 
ners like  polar  bears ;  men  who  hold  their  partners  uncom- 
fortably tumbling  out  of  their  arms,  as  if  they  were  afraid 
of  coming  near  them ;  men  who  run  round  their  partners, 
men  who  kick,  men  who  scratch,  men  who  knock  knees — 
every  variety,  in  fact,  of  the  human  animal,  rushing  vio- 
lently round,  doing  their  best  to  make  themselves  giddy 
and  tear  their  clothes. 

"Are  you  going  to  dance  this  with  me,  or  are  you 
not  ?  "  asks  Lenore,  impatiently ;  "  because,  if  not,  I  will 
ask  some  one  else — I  mean,  I  will  make  some  one  else  ask 
me." 

"  Of  course  I  am." 


234  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  What  are  you  waiting  for,  then  ?  why  don't  you  start  ? 
I  am  mad  to  begin !  Turn  te  turn  !  if  they  play  this  air 
when  I  am  in  my  coffin,  I  shall  jump  up  and  galop  in  my 
shroud  !  " 

In  a  second  more,  the  black  and  silver  gown  has  joined 
the  merry  mad  rout  of  reds,  and  blues,  and  greens,  and 
whites.     After  half  a  dozen  turns,  Lenore  pants  a  little,  and 
says : 
"  Stop." 

"  That  means  that  I  dance  badly,"  says  Paul,  releasing 
her  from  his  arms. 

"  It  means  that  I  am  never  long-winded  ;  doctors  often 
say  that  I  ought  not  to  dance." 

"  Not  really  ? "  incredulously  looking  at  her  cheeks, 
carnationed  by  the  movement  of  the  dance — at  her  great 
clear  eyes.  "  I  say,  Lenore,  do  I  dance  very  atrociously  ? 
It  is  a  thing  that  I  do  not  do  once  in  a  month  of  Sun- 
days." 

"  Not  very"  replies  Lenore,  rather  slowly ;  "  you  have 
not  quite  got  into  my  step  yet,  but  that  will  come."  (Then, 
seeing  him  look  a  little  mortified  :)  "  You  are  not  like  Ma- 
jor Webster,  who  leaps  his  own  height  in  the  air  every 
step  he  takes,  and  gets  round  the  room  in  three  bounds, 
like  a  kangaroo." 

Paul  laughs. 

"  That  is  modest  praise." 

Meanwhile  Sylvia  has  been  safely  piloted  to  the  top  of 
the  room,  and  enthroned  between  Mrs.  Webster  and  another 
diamonded  dowager.  Jemima  and  Miss  Webster  remain 
standing.  To  take  a  seat  is  virtually  to  confess  yourself 
shelved  ;  to  remain  standing,  is  an  advertisement  that  you 
are  still  to  be  had. 

"  You  won't  take  a  turn,  I  suppose  ?  "  Scrope  says  to 
Mrs.  Prodgers,  as  he  prepares  to  saunter  away. 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  £35 

She  has  so  often  announced  her  intention  of  not  dan- 
cing that  he  thinks  the  invitation — in  itself  dissuasively 
worded — may  be  safely  hazarded.  But  human  prescience 
is  often  at  fault. 

"  Would  you  mind  holding  my  bouquet  for  me,  dear  Mrs. 
Webster  ? "  says  Mrs.  Prodgers,  getting  down  with  some 
alacrity  from  her  bench.  "  Thanks  so  much  !  You  see  " 
(with  a  little  affected  shrug),  "  I  am  fated  not  to  be  left  in 
peace.  It  seems  a  little  hard  upon  the  girls,  doesn't  it  ?  but 
one  cannot  2:)ass  on  one's  partners,  can  one  ?  they  would 
not  like  it.  I  assure  you  I  had  no  more  idea  of  dancing — 
but  one  gets  so  tired  of  saying  '  No,'  '  No,'  '  No ' — such  an 
old  friend,  too — you  need  not  smile — he  is  really  !  " 

"  Quite  right,  my  dear,  quite  ! "  replies  Mrs.  Webster, 
nodding  good-humoredly.  She  is  very  comfortably  perched 
herself,  and  she  has  long  given  up  her  daughter  as  a  bad 
job.  "  I  only  wish  that  Miss  Jemima  could  find  a  partner 
too — where  is  James  ?  "  (standing  up  on  the  raised  foot- 
board, whence  she  can  get  a  commanding  view  over  the 
company's  head) ;  "  he  was  here  a  minute  ago,  and  he  had 
no  partner  then — his  had  thrown  him  over — I  am  sure  he 
would  be  most  happy  ! " 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no,  thanks !  "  replies  Jemima,  in  a  frenzy  at 
the  thought  of  being  crammed  down  James's  unwilling 
throat.  "  I  am  quite  happy,  I  assure  you  !  I  like  looking 
on ;  it  amuses  me,  and  some  one  will  be  sure  to  turn  up 
just  now." 

Miss  Webster  smiles ;  she  always  does ;  she  has  smiled 
through  eight-and-thirty  years  of  hope  deferred.  Callow 
boys  and  fat  old  married  men  are  her  sheet-anchor,  and  she 
is  on  the  lookout  for  such  now. 

The  dance  ends  ;  the  sound  of  scampering  and  shuffling 
ceases  suddenly ;  people's  voices  drop  from  bawling  pitch 
to  their  natural  key ;  everybody  streams  to  the  doors.  The 


GOOD-EYE,   SWEETHEART!" 


house  seems  to  have  been  built  for  the  express  purpose  of 
furthering  love-making1.  From  the  ballroom  long  corridors 
diverge  in  every  direction,  dimly  lit ;  and  out  of  these  cor- 
ridors open  many  quiet  rooms,  also  dimly  lit. 

"  Let  us  go  into  the  passages ! "  cries  Lenore,  "  and  I 
will  show  you  all  the  holes  and  corners,  where  I  perpe- 
trated my  worst  atrocities  in  flirtation  last  year." 

"  On  the  same  principle,  I  suppose,"  replies  Paul,  laugh- 
ing, "  which  makes  a  man  always  take  his  second  wife  to 
visit  the  tomb  of  his  first  ?  " 

They  find  a  bench,  retired,  yet  not  lonely,  where,  in 
shade  themselves,  they  can  see  men  and  girls,  men  and 
girls,  men  and  girls,  go  trooping  by:  couples  flirting, 
couples  not  flirting,  couples  trying  to  flirt,  couples  trying 
not  to  flirt.  It  is  a  bench  that  only  holds  two  people ;  well 
armed,  well  cushioned,  where,  half  hidden  behind  Lenore's 
spread  fan,  they  lean  together  and  whisper  gayty. 

"  Paul !  Paul !  do  you  see  that  girl  ? — how  dirty  the 
body  of  her  dress  is  ?  " 

"  Cannot  say  that  I  remarked  it." 

"  It  is,  though ;  as  dirty  as  the  ground  !  She  and  her 
sisters  always  make  a  point  of  coming  to  these  balls  in 
filthy  dresses,  to  mark  the  distinction  between  themselves 
and  the  clean,  crisp,  townspeople." 

"  It  is  patrician  dirt,  is  it  ?     I  respect  it." 

"  Do  you  see  that  big  person  in  pink  ?  Last  year  she 
went  to  the  Assembly  in  a  wreath  of  mistletoe  /  you  may 
imagine  the  consequences." 

Paul  laughs. 

"  Her  partner  always  gets  very  druhk !  Last  time  I 
saw  him  was  in  the  Ansons'  supper-room ;  he  was  sitting 
on  a  lump  of  ice,  crying  bitterly." 

"  Lenore,  why  are  you  hiding  your  face  ?  " 

"Hush!  hush!  young  Anson  is  coming  this  way;  he 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SATS.  237 

would  be  sure  to  ask  me  to  dance,  and  dancing  with  him  is 
like  going  into  a  battle,  without  the  glory." 

Young  Anson  passes  safely  by,  looking  neither  to  the 
right  hand  nor  the  left. 

"  I  breathe  again,  Paul ! "  (edging  a  little  nearer  to 
him,  and  dropping  her  voice,  more  for  the  pleasure  of 
whispering  than  from  any  dread  of  being  overheard). 
"  Paul,  do  you  mean  to  let  me  dance  when  we  are  mar- 
ried?" 

"H'm!  I  shall  see." 

"  We  shall  not  be  able  to  go  to  many  balls,"  says  Le- 
nore,  sighing,  "  for  we  shall  have  no  clothes." 

"  Speak  for  yourself." 

"  We  must  stay  at  home,  and  have  tea  and  shrimps ;  of 
course,  we  shall  not  be  able  to  afford  dinner." 

"  Shall  not  we  ?  "  (looking  rather  aghast).  "  Does  din- 
ner cost  more  than  tea  and  shrimps  ?  " 

"Of  course  it  does:  shrimps  are  only  fourpence  a 
pint ! " 

Paul  shudders. 

"  Could  not  you  make  it  prawns  f  " 

"  Certainly  not ;  tea  and  shrimps  it  must  be — perhaps 
water-cresses  in  the  height  of  the  season — and,  after  tea, 
you  will  read  the  paper  in  carpet  slippers — not  the  Times 
— we  shall  not  be  able  to  afford  the  Times — but  some 
penny  paper — and  I  shall  sit  opposite  you,  with  my  hair 
flat  to  my  head,  and  low  down  over  my  ears — is  not  that 
it  ? — hemming  a  duster ! " 

"I  do  not  believe  you  can  hem." 

The  music  has  struck  up  again:  Lancers,  this  time. 
Fewer  couples  trail  and  saunter  by :  most  have  returned 
to  the  ballroom.  The  fiddles'  sharp,  loud  squeak  comes 
more  softly  to  their  ears ;  the  merry  cadence  and  marked 
time  of  the  Lancers ;  then  the  little  pause  in  the  music. 


238  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

that  tells  one,  without  one's  seeing,  that  the  girls  are  all 
courtesying,  and  the  men,  with  arms  linked  together,  are 
galloping  madly  round,  like  savages  before  a  wooden  god. 

Lenore's  eyes  dance  softly,  too,  in  this  dusk  place. 

"  Lenore,  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  you." 

"  Not  a  very  big  one,  I  hope." 

"  You  will  think  it  immense." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  That  you  will  dance  with  no  one  but  me,  to-night." 

He  had  expected  her  to  accede  with  eager  alacrity,  but, 
on  the  contrary,  she  says  nothing. 

"I  know  that  I  dance  badly,  vilely"  continues  Paul, 
coloring  a  little.  "  I  have  long  suspected  it,  and  to-night " 
(laughing  a  little)  "  I  learned  it  for  a  certainty r,  from  your 
face,  and  from  the  eagerness  with  which  you  engaged  me 
in  conversation  in  the  pauses  of  the  dance,  to  hinder  me 
from  starting  afresh.  But  why  should  we  dance  ?  Could 
we  be  better  off  than  we  are  now  ?  " 

"  Not  easily,"  she  says,  and  says  it  truly ;  but  she  still 
evades  replying  to  his  request. 

"  I  want  to  have  a  feast  of  your  society  to-night,"  says 
Paul,  earnestly.  "  Think  what  a  fast  I  have  had ! — six 
months !  We  seem  to  know  each  other  so  little  yet,  and 
even  there"  (giving  a  vague  nod  to  express  Sylvia's  abode), 
"jolly  as  it  is,  we  never  seem  to  get  five  minutes'  talk 
without  Jemima  bouncing  in  at  one  door,  or  Sylvia  ambling 
in  at  another,  or  those  imps  of  Satan  rushing  in  and  play- 
ing the  devil's  tattoo  on  one's  shins." 

"  Children  of  Belial ! "  says  Lenore,  tersely.  "  Good 
Heavens,  Paul !  how  I  hate  the  young  of  the  human 
species  !  Don't  you  ?  " 

Paul  looks  rather  shocked. 

"  Don't  say  that — it  is  unwomanly ! " 

"  Of  course,"  retorts  she,  sarcastically,  "vto  a  man  they 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  239 

may  be  imps  of  Satan,  but  to  the  ideal  woman  they  must 
always  be  cherubs — biting,  kicking,  scratching  cherubs, 
but  cherubs  always.  By-the-by,  Paul"  (with  a  sudden 
change  of  tone),  "how  is  the  ideal  woman?  Have  you 
seen  her  lately  ?  " 

Paul  turns  his  head  away,  and  says : 

"Fiddlesticks!" 

"  Paul,  Paul !  I  have  an  idea !  How  red  you  are ! 
Look  me  in  the  face — don't  turn  the  back  of  your  head 
to  me.  Is  it  she  that  wears  her  hair  flat,  and  eschews 
frisettes  f  " 

Paul  turns  round  as  bidden.  His  face  is  undeniably 
red ;  he  is  not  laughing,  and  his  eyes  are  rather  defiant. 

"What  if  it  is?" 

"  Does  she  wear  a  poke  bonnet  ?  " 

"Perhaps!" 

"  And  a  gray  cloak  down  to  her  heels  ?  " 

"Well?" 

"  I  know  all  about  her,"  says  Lenore,  resentfully,  her 
eyes  flashing  and  cheeks  ablaze.  "A  puritanical  little 

prig!" 

"  I  do  not  see  what  good  it  does  you  abusing  a  person 
you  have  never  seen,"  says  Paul,  in  a  rather  surly  voice ; 
"  nor  what  it  has  to  say  to  whether  you  are  willing  to  sac- 
rifice this  one  evening  to  me  or  not." 

"Certainly  not!"  replies  the  girl,  angrily.  "Why 
should  I  ?  What  have  you  done  to  deserve  it  ?  Yester- 
day you  scolded  me  till  I  cried ;  everybody  saw  my  red 
eyes.  To-day  you  forgot  the  common  civility  of  getting 
me  a  bouquet ;  and  you  are  always  trotting  out  another 
woman's  virtues  and  beauties  at  my  expense.  Certainly 
not !  I  will  dance  like  a  Maenad  with  all  my  old  friends." 

PauPs  forehead  wrinkles  into  a  frown,  and  his  mouth 
turns  down,  as  is  his  way  when  extremely  vexed. 


24-0  .  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  All  right !     Do  ! "  he  says,  in  a  constrained  voice. 

She  had  spoken  with  petulant  half-meaning,  had  ex- 
pected to  be  coaxed,  entreated,  scolded  even,  out  of  her 
perverse  determination ;  but  he  employs  neither  coaxings, 
entreaties,  nor  scoldings — he  acquiesces  with  dumb  pride. 
They  sit  side  by  side  in  sullen  silence,  till  disturbed  by  the 
sound  of  approaching  voices,  feet,  and  the  long  rustle  and 
swish  of  a  woman's  infinite  gown. 

"  You  must  take  me  back  to  the  ball-room,"  Sylvia  is 
saying,  as  she  flutters  her  fan  and  smiles ;  "  you  must,  in- 
deed. If  people  come  out  and  find  us  sauntering  about 
here,  they  will  be  sure  to  say  that  I  am  flirting  with  you, 
and  there  is  nothing  in  life  that  T  should  dislike  so  much 
as  that — oh !  here  you  are  !  " 

Both  are  too  sulky  to  answer. 

"  Not  been  dancing  ?  Very  wise  of  you  !  Look  how 
much  better  you  have  come  off  than  I ! — in  ribbons — abso- 
lutely in  tatters  !  And  Charlie  has  got  a  yard  and  a  half 
of  me  in  his  pocket — have  not  you  ?  " 

She  looks  up  at  him  playfully,  with  round,  complacent 
eyes,  and  then  stops  suddenly. 

To  even  Sylvia's  comprehension,  it  is  evident  that  he 
has  not  heard  a  word  she  has  been  saying.  His  eyes  are 
fixed  with  steady  intentness  on  Lenore.  Paul  is  gazing 
vacantly  down  the  long  vista  of  the  fast-refilling  corridors. 

"  Are  you  engaged  for  the  next  dance,  Miss  Lenore  ?  " 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  (nonchalantly)  "  a  quadrille  ?  " 
"  It  is  a  waltz." 

She  peeps  at  Paul  out  of  the  corner  of  one  eye ;  not  a 
sign  of  relenting  on  the  ill-tempered  gravity  of  his  face. 
Well !  she  can  be  as  cross  and  sulky  as  he,  at  a  pinch. 

"  No— I  am  not." 

"  Will  you  let  me  have  it  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  241 

"  Shall  I  be  likely  to  find  you  here  still  after  I  have 
taken  Mrs.  Prodgers  back  to  the  ballroom  ?  " 

"  I  will  not  trouble  you,"  replies  Sylvia,  rather  offended 
at  the  slight  hint  of  anxiety  to  be  rid  of  her  unintentionally 
implied  in  these  last  words.  "  I  am  going  "  (with  a  co- 
quettish smile)  "  to  put  myself  under  Paul's  protection. — 
Do  you  hear,  Paul  ?  I  am  going  to  put  myself  under  your 
protection.  You  are  not  going  to  dance  ?  No  ?  Neither 
will  I !  We  will  sit  here  and  criticise  everybody — yes,  we 
will  talk  you  both  well  over "  (shaking  her  bouquet  at 
Scrope)  ;  "  if  your  ears  burn,  you  will  know  what  to  attrib- 
%ute  it  to." 

Lenore  has  risen,  and,  while  Sylvia  is  speaking,  she 
bends  and  whispers  maliciously  to  Paul,  "  Pleasant  medi- 
tations on  poke-bonnets  and  flat  heads  to  you  !  " 

He  does  not  take  the  slightest  notice. 

She  puts  her  hand  on  Scrope's  arm,  and  walks  off. 
Twice,  thrice,  she  looks  back,  but  not  once  has  she  the  sat- 
isfaction of  detecting  her  lover's  eyes  wistfully  seeking 
hers.  Silently  they  enter  the  ballroom  and  join  the  just- 
beginning  whirl.  Lenore  is  thoroughly  out  of  tune — angry 
with  herself,  enraged  with  Paul,  furious  with  Scrope.  If 
any  hole  can  be  picked  in  his  performance,  he  may  be 
quite  sure  that  she  will  not  spare  him.  She  is,  however, 
deprived  of  that  satisfaction.  Scrope's  performance  is  as 
much  above  praise  as  Paul's  was  below  blame.  He  dances 
superbly.  It  is  a  small  accomplishment,  and  does  not  add 
much  to  a  man's  social  value,  but  in  a  ballroom  it  is  the 
giver  of  great  joy.  Once  in  his  arms,  a  delightful  sense  of 
security  and  strength  comes  over  Scrope's  partner;  a 
blessed  certainty  of  immunity  from  jostling  ;  of  being  borne 
along  steadity,  rapidly,  buoyantly,  with  the  swift  smooth- 
ness of  a  swallow's  flight ;  all  trouble  taken  off  her  hands, 
and  only  pleasure  left.  Lenore  loves  dancing  intensely ; 
11 


242  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

with  an  intensity,  indeed,  seldom  met  with  among  sad  and 
sober  Englishwomen.  On  her  the  mere  music,  motion,  and 
measure  of  the  dance,  have  an  effect  verging  on  intoxica- 
tion. Down  the  long  room  they  fly  together ;  the  floor 
seems  nothing  to  them ;  they  are  floating  on  air.  while  the 
music  swells  loud  and  sighs  faint,  bursts  into  mad  merri- 
ment, and  dies  in  voluptuous  complaints.  Lenore  has  for- 
gotten her  anger — has  forgotten  even  Paul ;  all  feelings  are 
merged  in  one  of  acute,  sensuous  enjoyment — a  feeling 
languid,  yet  exciting ;  luxurious,  yet  exhilarating.  Many 
couples,  who  set  off  at  the  same  time  as  they  did,  are 
standing  still  to  rest,  panting  and  breathless ;  but  they  still 
fly  on  with  untired,  joyous  grace. 

"  Shall  we  stop  ?     Am  I  tiring  you  ?  "  Scrope  asks. 

"  No,  no  !     Go  on,  go  on  ! " 

"  I  wish  to  Heavens  it  could  go  on  forever  !  "  says  the 
young  man,  losing  his  head,  and  foolishly  whispering  into 
the  white  ear  that  is  so  temptingly  close  to  his  face. 

The  spell  is  broken. 

"  Stop ! "  says  Lenore,  imperatively. 

He  obeys,  and  stands  gravely  beside  her,  his  broad 
chest  heaving  a  little  with  his  late  exertions ;  some  strong 
suppressed  excitement  giving  an  expression  painful  yet 
eminently  becoming  to  his  straight-cut  Greek  face. 

"  I  thought  you  said  you  were  not  tired  ?  " 

"  No  more  I  am." 

"  Why  did  you  say  <  Stop,'  then  ?  " 

"  Because  you  were  beginning  to  be  a  fool." 

"  I  began  that  long  ago  ;  six  months  ago,  in  church ;  in 
Guingamp  Cathedral — if  you  wish  to  be  exact." 

"  You  insist  on  being  a  fool,  then  ?  " 

"  I  said  that  I  wished  this  waltz  could  last  forever,  and 
I  stick  to  it,"  says  the  young  man,  doggedly.  "  I  do  wish 
it." 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS. 


"  Tastes  differ,"  says  Lenore,  scornfully.  "  I  know 
nothing  that  I  should  dislike  more  than  an  eternity  of 
capering  with  you." 

He  bites  his  lip  hard,  but  attempts  no  retort. 

"  Shall  we  take  another  turn  ?  "  says  Lenore,  presently; 
mollified  by  his  silence,  after  an  interval  spent  by  her  in 
tapping  with  her  feet  and  beating  time  to  the  music. 
"  That  is  to  say,  if  you  will  promise  not  to  be  a  fool." 

"  I  promise  nothing." 

"  Well,  then,  we  must  risk  it,  I  suppose,"  replies  she, 
with  a  careless  laugh.  "  Mind,  it  is  no  compliment  to  you. 
It  is  solely  for  my  own  satisfaction  ;  for,  though  you  may 
be  a  fool,  you  dance  like  a  seraph,  and  I  cannot  bear  to 
lose  a  bar  of  this." 

Away,  again,  light  as  a  feather  ;  as  if  blown  by  the 
breath  of  the  music.  Once  off—  her  anger  unroused  again 
by  any  rash  remarks  from  her  partner  —  the  same  sense  of 
delicious  enervation  as  before,  steals  over  Lenore.  It  is 
like  floating  on  a  summer  sea,  as  the  music  whispers, 
whispers,  then  laughs  out  and  triumphs,  in  a  loud,  glad 
clash. 

And  Scrope  —  "  Every  dog  has  his  day,"  they  say,  and 
this  is  his.  It  is  a  wretched  little  day  ;  but  still  it  is  his  ! 
She  may  be  Paul's  for  all  after-life  —  nay,  she  will  be,  of 
course  ;  who  can  hinder  her  ?  But  for  these  divine,  mad 
minutes  she  is  his  !  It  is  not  Paul's  arm  that  is  round  her 
waist  ;  it  is  not  PauVs  heart  against  which  hers  is  panting; 
it  is  not  Paul's  shoulder  on  which  the  milk-white  beauty 
of  her  arm  is  lying.  All  earthly  pleasures  must  end,  and  a 
waltz  is,  in  its  very  essence,  one  of  the  shortest  ;  the  music 
ceases.  As  they  turn  toward  the  door  they  come  face  to 
face  with  Paul.  He  makes  as  though  he  would  pass  them 
without  speaking  ;  but  Lenore  addresses  him  : 

"  What  have  you  done  with  Sylvia  ?  " 


244  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  She  is  dancing." 

"  And  you  ?     Why  are  not  you  ?  " 

"Because  I  hate  it ! "  (emphatically). 

"  You  might  have  given  Jemima  a  turn  ;  she  very  sel- 
dom gets  a  partner,  and  she  likes  dancing." 

"Even  with  me?"  (with  a  sneer). 

"  I  wish  you  a  better  temper,"  says  Lenore,  hastily, 
moving  on. 

They  pass  out  into  the  passage. 

"  Why  have  you  come  here  ?  "  cries  the  girl,  fretfully ; 
"  it  is  draughty.  I  shiver ;  let  us  go  back  to  Sylvia — to 
Mr.  Webster — anywhere  !  " 

"You  do  not  shiver  when  you  are  with  other  men," 
says  Scrope,  resentfully. 

"  Other  men  do  not  stare  at  one,  as  if  they  were  going 
to  eat  one  ! "  cries  the  girl,  indignantly.  "  Good  Heavens ! 
Charlie,  how  much  better  I  liked  you  when  you  were  only 
a  stupid,  silent,  sulky  boy,  before  you  adopted  these  un- 
pleasant man's  airs." 

In  defiance  of  appearances,  Scrope  stands  stock-still ;  he 
is  young  enough  to  be  galled  by  allusions  to  his  age. 

"  Lenore,"  he  says,  almost  imperatively,  "  stop  gibing 
at  me ;  after  to-night,  I  give  you  a  carte  blanche  to  abuse 
me  as  much  as  you  please  behind  my  back — to  mimic  me 
for  your  friends'  amusement — to  show  me  up  in  as  humili- 
ating a  light  as  it  pleases  you — you  are  quite  capable  of  it 
— but,  for  to-night,  be  civil." 

"  Mend  your  own  manners,  then,"  cries  the  girl,  tartly. 
"  Who  gave  you  leave  to  call  me  '  Lenore  ?  '  For  the  last 
few  days  I  have  remarked  that  you  have  been  slurring  over 
the  '  miss ; '  please  to  replace  my  style  and  title  immedi- 
ately." 

"  Is  it  worth  while,"  asks  the  young  fellow,  more  calm- 
ly, but  with  great  bitterness ;  "  is  it  worth  while  accustom- 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  245 

ing  one's  self  to  call  you  *  Miss,'  when  you  will  so  soon  be 
'  Mrs.  ?  '  For  all  my  future  life  I  swear  to  you,  I  will  try 
to  think  of  you  only  as  '  Mrs.  Le  Mesurier ; '  but,  for  to- 
night, be  Lenore,  plain  Lenore  !  " 

For  all  answer,  she  bursts  out  laughing.  <c  Excuse  me, 
it  is  rude,  I  know ;  but  you  reminded  me  so  forcibly  of  the 
tale  of  the  man  at  a  ball,  who,  when  the  music  stopped 
suddenly,  was  heard  saying  to  his  partner,  at  the  top  of 
his  voice  :  '  Do  not  call  me  Mr.  Smith ;  call  me  plain  Wil- 
liam!' and,  as  he  was  remarkably  ugly,  he  was  called 
'plain  William*  ever  after." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

WHAT    THE     AUTHOR     SATS. 

IN  the  mean  time,  Mrs.  Prodgers  has  been  restored  to 
her  eminent  position  on  the  bench :  she  has  been  danced 
and  talked  and  walked  about,  into  a  state  of  even  more 
than  her  usual  complaisance. 

Jemima  still  stands  where  she  left  her. 

"  Have  you  been  dancing,  dear  ?  Yes  ?  Oh,  I  am  so 
glad — I  thought  you  would — I  don't  know  what  has  come 
to  the  people  to-night ;  they  would  tear  one  in  pieces,  if 
one  would  let  them !  one  thing  I  do  set  my  face  against, 
and  that  is,  those  passages.  I  said  to  young  Anson,  '  There 
is  no  one  fonder  of  laughing,  and  talking,  and  fun,  than  I 
am,  but  if  you  talk  from  now  till  Doomsday,  you  will  not 
persuade  me  to  sit  out  with  you.'  I  dare* say  there  is  no 
harm  in  it  really,  but  people  do  let  their  tongues  run  on 
so,  when  a  person  is  young  and  tolerable  looking." 

Jemima  makes  no  answer. 


246  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

Sylvia's  conversation  is  like  a  Gregorian  chant ;  there 
is  a  certain  sameness  about  it. 

Miss  Webster  has  been  waltzing  with  an  Eton  boy,  in 
a  round  jacket :  her  shins  are  black  with  bruises,  her  elbow 
is  scratched,  but  at  least  she  has  not  been  a  wall-flower. 

Another  galop  strikes  up.  Sylvia's  talk  drops  into  si- 
lence ;  she  fiddles  with  her  bouquet,  and  tries  to  look  as  if 
she  would  not  dance  if  she  were  asked.  Men  hurry  hither 
and  thither,  seeking  for  their  promised  partners ;  raising 
and  dashing  in  the  same  instant  false  hopes  in  unengaged 
girls,  by  making  apparently  straight  for  them,  staring  hard 
at  them,  and  then  flying  off  at  a  tangent  on  discovering 
that  they  are  not  the  right  ones.  Jemima  scans  the  crowd 
to  see  whether  she  can  discover  any  one  likely  to  ask  her 
(in  many  women  the  love  of  dancing  survives  the  probabil- 
ity of  being  invited),  but,  finding  no  one,  resigns  herself 
with  philosophy  to  her  fate.  Other  people's  enjoyment  is 
not  so  good  as  one's  own,  but  it  is  perhaps  better  than 
none.  It  is  some  people's  lot  to  be  spectators  through  life. 
She  looks  on.  The  pink  calico,  the  laurels,  the  mirrors, 
the  pretty  rose-red  ladies,  the  plunging  grocers  and  floun- 
dering groceresses ;  a  tremendous  thud! — two  people  fallen 
like  one  log ;  now  sprawling  in  a  confused  heap  of  broad- 
cloth and  illusion  on  the  floor ;  the  lady  has  ingeniously 
wound  herself,  like  swaddling-clothes,  round  her  squire's 
legs  ;  she  is  unwound,  feels  for  her  head,  settles  her  wreath, 
and  off  again  !  There  are  so  many  people,  and  they  go  so 
quickly,  that  it  is  difficult  to  follow  any  one :  a  blue  couple, 
a  pink  couple,  a  white  couple ;  they  dazzle  the  eyeballs 
with  the  celerity  with  which  they  shoot  across  them  !  A 
black  couple — faller  than  most  of  the  others;  the  soft 
sparkle  of  silver  flowers  flashing  like  meteors  down  the 
room. 

Why,  it  is  Lenore  !     Lenore  and  Scrope  again ! 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  247 

"  I  thought  I  had  understood  that  your  sister's  fiance 
was  a  plain  man,"  says  an  old  woman,  who,  unable  to  find 
room  on  a  bench,  is  standing  behind  Jemima,  and  tapping 
her  on  her  bare  shoulder  to  attract  her  attention. 

"  Quite  the  contrary "  (with  a  complimentary  smile). 
"  Have  you  ever  seen  him  ?  "  asks  Jemima. 

"  Is  not  it  he  with  whom  she  is  dancing  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear  no ! " 

"  Really !  what  a  stupid  mistake  !  I  thought  it  must 
be,  because  I  have  always  seen  them  together.  A  cousin, 
no  doubt?" 

Jemima  does  not  relieve  her  curiosity.  She  affects  not 
to  hear. 

Turning  her  head  aside  a  little,  she  finds  Paul  at 
her  elbow.  Judging  by  his  face,  he  has  heard,  appa- 
rently. 

"  Oh,  there  you  are  ! "  cries  Sylvia,  catching  sight  of 
him  at  the  same  moment,  and  resuming  her  animation. 
"  You  are  in  disgrace,  do  you  know,  deep  disgrace  ?  You 
have  not  asked  me  to  dance  once  to-night "  (looking  at 
him  with  large,  round  eyes,  and  smiling  archly). 

Paul  smiles,  too,  but  not  very  cheerfully. 

"  My  dancing  is  such  that  it  is  only  on  very  old  acquaint- 
ance that  I  dare  inflict  it." 

"  I  saw  you  dancing  with  Lenore." 

He  shrugs  his  shoulders. 

"  I  believe  I  did  shamble  round  the  room  once  or  twice, 
but  it  was  not  a  very  successful  experiment." 

After  the  dance,  which  is  surely  ten  minutes  longer 
than  any  galop  that  ever  was  played  before,  after  a  pro- 
longed stroll  in  the  corridors,  after  tea,  Lenore  returns  to 
her  chaperone ;  returns,  laughing  and  flushed,  but  with  a 
look  of  uneasy  excitement  underlying  the  surface-merri- 
ment of  her  face. 


248  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

Paul  has  been  waiting,  with  no  outward  sign  of  impa- 
tience on  his  grave,  sad  face.  He  goes  up  to  her. 

"  May  I  have  five  minutes'  talk  with  you  ?  "  he  asks, 
formally. 

She  takes  his  arm,  and  they  walk  off. 

Neither  speaks  till  they  reach  the  bench  on  which,  in 
the  earlier  and  happier  part  of  the  evening,  they  had  sat 
together,  gayly  chattering.  Then  Paul  addresses  her  with 
cutting,  cold  politeness. 

"  May  I  ask,  Lenore,  what  is  inducing  you  to  make  your- 
self so  remarkable  with  Scrope  to-night  ?  Is  it  solely  for 
your  owrn  satisfaction,  or  for  the  double  pleasure  of  amus- 
ing yourself  and  annoying  me  ?  " 

The  opening  is  not  conciliatory.  The  color  rushes  red 
and  headlong  to  Lenore's  cheeks ;  she  flings  up  her  proud 
head. 

"  I  killed  two  birds  with  one  stone,"  she  says,  in  angry 
jest :  "  he  dances  like  an  archangel,  and  it  makes  you  jeal- 
ous." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  your  first  assertion,"  says  Paul,  more 
col dy  than  ever,  "and  I  fully  agree  with  your  last;  per- 
haps I  am  more  prone  to  jealousy  than  other  men.  I  have 
not  been  so  used  to  women  and  their  ways.  But  I  confess 
I  do  not  enjoy  seeing  my  future  wife  hauled  about  by  a 
man,  who  is  (as  is  evident  to  the  most  casual  observer) 
making  passionate  and  unrestrained  love  to  her." 

She  is  about  to  interrupt  him,  but  he  stops  her. 

"  I  confess  I  do  not  relish  seeing  him  pointed  out  as  oc- 
cupying the  position  which,  till  to-night,  I  supposed  was 
mine." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean "  (in  n  tone  where  the  persuasive  is  quite 
swamped  in  the  imperative)  "  that  I  distinctly  object  to 
your  dancing  with  Scrope." 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  249 

"  That  is  unfortunate  ! "  retorts  Lenore,  to  whose  ears 
the  imperative  has  been,  from  her  youth  up,  an  unknown 
mood,  and  whose  gorge  has  always  risen  at  the  faintest  at- 
tempt at  coercion ;  "  for  I  have  every  intention  of  dancing 
with  him  again — once — twice — if  not  more." 

"  After  the  opinion  I  have  just  expressed  ?  "  cries  Paul, 
his  anger  effectually  breaking  through  the  armor  of  his 
coldness,  voice  raised,  and  gray  eyes  lightening. 

"  Most  decidedly,"  she  answers,  with  distinct  emphasis. 
"  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  breaking  my  word,  and  last  night 
I  promised  him  that,  on  condition  that  he  leaves  Sylvia's 
house  to-morrow,  I  would  waltz  four  times  with  him  to- 
night— and  waltz  four  times  with  him  I  will !  " 

"  You  promised  him  !  "  repeats  Paul,  hardly  any  longer 
master  of  his  indignation.  "  Am  I  to  understand  that  you 
have  been  making  terms — bargaining  with  him?  How 
ought  his  comings  or  goings  to  affect  you  ?  " 

"  In  this  way,"  she  answers,  her  lips  quivering  with  an- 
ger, but  articulating  with  slow  clearness.  "  I  have,  or  fan- 
cy I  have,  a  considerable  regard  for  you  and  a  slight  regard 
for  him,  and  I  have  no  wish  to  see  you  kick  each  other 
down-stairs — a  denottme?it  which  is  only  a  question  of  time 
as  long  as  you  are  in  the  same  house." 

u  Lenore !  "  (snatching  her  hand,  and  holding  it  with  al- 
most painful  tightness,  while  his  eyes  glow  bright  and 
deeply  angry  in  this  dim  place,)  "  are  you  mad,  or  are  you 
bent  on  driving  me  mad?  After  what  has  often  passed  be-' 
tweqn  us  about  that  fellow,  can  you  dare  to  tell  me  to  my 
face  that  you  have  a  regard  for  him  ?  " 

Whom  the  gods  wish  to  destroy  they  first  deprive  of 
understanding. 

"  Dare ! "  she  says,  while  her  eyes  meet  his  unflinch- 
ingly, though,  within,  her  spirit  quails — her  heart  yearns 
to  him  in  his  honest  anger.  "  What  an  ugly  word  !  Yes, 


250  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

I  do  dare !  why  should  not  I  ?  He  is  handsome,  and  I  love 
to  look  at  beautiful  things  and  people;  he  admires  me 
blindly,  and  admiration  is  food  and  drink  to  me ;  he  can 
see  no  fault  in  me,  and  I  hate  to  be  eternally  carped  at  and 
picked  holes  in  ! " 

"  I  see,"  says  Paul,  dropping  her  hand,  and  speaking  in 
a  tone  of  smothered  resentment,  which  (if  she  could  but 
have  understood  it)  was  more  alarming  than  his  outspoken 
anger,  "  I  understand  ;  you  cannot  see  our  unsuitability 
more  clearly  than  I  do ;  from  the  first,  I  felt  it  profoundly, 
and  every  day  I  live  I  feel  it  more.  But,  Lenore,  why," 
(grasping  her  arm  with  unconscious  fierceness) — "  why — 
if,  from  the  first,  you  only  meant  to  torment  me — why  did 
you  maJce  me  love  you?  There  were  hundreds  of  other 
victims  that  would  have  done  you  more  credit !  Why 
could  not  you  leave  me  alone  ?  " 

"  Leave  you  alone ! "  (turning  as  white  as  a  sheet) ; 
"  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean,"  he  answers,  firmly,  "  what  you  know  as  well 
as  I  do,  that  you  could  have  hindered  me  from  loving  you, 
if  you  had  wished ;  I  was  not  given  to  falling  in  love ;  till 
I  met  you  I  hated  ladies'  society ;  I  avoided  women ;  I  did 
not  understand  them,  and  they  thought  me  a  bore.  I  left 
them  alone,  and  they  left  me  alone ;  until  you — solely  for 
the  gratification  of  your  own  vanity,  as  I  now  see — made. 
me  love  you,  against  my  wish,  against  my  better  judgment, 
'as,  for  the  same  reason,  no  doubt,  you  have  now  made 
Scrope." 

She  sits,  with  her  head  bent,  silent ;  she  cannot  com- 
mand her  voice  to  answer. 

"  He  is  a  more  creditable  conquest  than  I,  I  own,"  con- 
tinues Paul,  bitterly ;  "  but  for  all  that  you  will  be  the  ruin 
of  him !  When  he  joined  me  at  Dinan  he  was  as  nice  a 
boy  and  as  good  a  fellow  as  ever  lived ;  I  looked  upon  him 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  251 

as  a  brother,  and  he — he  swore  by  me !  You  have  made 
him  hate  me  !  You  have  made  me  detest  the  sight  of  him ! 
I  congratulate  you  on  your  handiwork ! " 

She  lifts  her  eyes  to  hirn,  all  the  softness  gone  out  of 
them,  scintillating  with  anger.  "  Have  you  done  ?  "  she 
asks,  in  a  choked  voice ;  "  have  you  insulted  me  enough  for 
one  day  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  insulted  you,"  he  answers,  resolutely,  "  un- 
less God's  truth  be  an  insult ;  I  never  was  a  good  hand  at 
telling  smooth  lies ;  my  love  for  you  has  never  been  blind 
enough  to  hinder  my  seeing  that  you  are,  in  some  respects, 
different  from  what  I  could  wish  you  to  be ;  if  it  is  an  in- 
sult to  tell  you  so,  I  can  only  say  it  would  have  been  a 
thousand  times  better  if  we  had  never  met !  " 

A  pain  like  a  knife  goes  through  her  HEAKT,  but  she 
makes  no  sign. 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,"  she  answers,  commanding 
her  voice  into  calmness  by  an  immense  effort ;  "  will  you 
be  so  kind  as  to  take  me  back  to  Sylvia  ?  " 

He  gives  her  his  arm,  and  they  begin  to  retrace  their 
steps  ;  but  before  they  have  gone  six  paces  he  turns  aside 
into  one  of  the  rooms  that  open  out  of  the  passage.  It  is 
empty  ;  he  shuts  the  door.  His  soul  is  in  a  tumult ;  full, 
not  indeed  of  the  unnamed  pain  of  Lenore's,  but  of  confu- 
sion and  doubt.  If  he  marries  this  woman,  he  will  be  a 
miserable  man  ;  he  has  long  suspected  it,  and  choked  back 
the  suspicion ;  to-night  he  has  realized  it — but  yet — but  yet 
— she  is  as  beautiful  as  a  summer  moonrise — he  cannot  give 
her  up  without  an  effort.  They  are  as  much  alone  as  if 
they  were  on  a  desert  island ;  he  stands  facing  her. 

"  Lenore,"  he  says,  earnestly,  "  let  us  understand  one 
another.  If  this  is  only  a  silly  quarrel,  for  Heaven's  sake 
let  us  make  it  up  ;  if  it  is  only  a  capricious  way  of  trying 
how  much  I  can  stand,  I  tell  you  candidly  that  I  am  at  the 


252  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

end  of  my  tether ;  I  will  not  bear  a  feather's  weight  more ! 
Lenore,  am  I  unreasonable  ?  I  like  a  quiet  life,  and  I  want 
to  trust  my  wife  absolutely,  and  to  believe  in  her  as  I  be- 
lieve in  God.  Tell  me,  did  you  mean  the  things  you  said 
just  now,  or  were  you  only  angry  ?  If  you  were,  I  am  the 
last  person  that  has  any  right  to  blame  you.  Oh,  my  dear, 
think  before  you  answer  me  !  Our  whole  two  lives  hang 
upon  it." 

She  looks  at  him.  His  face  is  stern,  and  resolute,  and 
deeply  angered ;  but  is  it  not  also  tender  ?  She  is  all  but 
melted ;  in  a  second  more  she  would  have  been  sobbing  on 
his  heart,  but  in  the  instant  of  hesitation  his  former  words, 
"  You  made  me  love  you,"  recur  to  her,  bringing  profound 
resentment  with  them. 

"  I  did  mean  them,"  she  answers,  passionately.  "  I  do 
mean  them ;  it  is  so  pleasant  to  me  to  find  any  one  to  like 
me  spontaneously  that  I  naturally  prize  their  society." 

His  face  pales  and  changes,  it  is  no  longer  tender ;  it  is 
only  stern. 

"  All  right,"  he  says,  coldly ;  "  you  are  at  least  explicit. 
It  has  come  to  this,  then,  Lenore — you  must  choose  be- 
tween Scrope  and  me.  I  am  far  from  saying  that  he  is  not 
a  fitter  mate  for  you  than  I.  He  is  young,  he  is  good-look- 
ing, he  is  rich,  he  has  every  thing  to  catch  a  woman's  eye 
and  gain  a  woman's  heart;  and  I — "  (looking  down  and 
sighing),  **  well,  I  suppose  I  have  not  much.  It  has  been 
as  great  a  wonder  to  me  as  to  the  rest  of  the  world  what 
you  could  have  seen  in  me — you  know,  I  told  you  before 
I'm  not  up  to  woman's  ways — but  one  thing  is  certain " 
(lifting  his  head  again,  and  speaking  with  firm  emphasis), 
" I will  go  shares  with  no  man;  I  will  have  all  or  none! 
As  long  as  you  are  my  betrothed  wife,  I  forbid  you  to 
dance  with  Scrope." 

"  And  I  decline  to  be  forbidden,"  she  cries,  maddened 


WHAT  TEE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  253 

by  rage — by  the  internal  knowledge  of  being  in  the  wrong, 
and — oh,  far  worst,  cruellest  of  all — by  the  conviction  that 
he  does  not  love  her  well  enough  to  take  her,  faults  and 
all — that  he  will  have  her  on  his  own  terms  or  not  at  all, 
that  he  is  going — if  she  persists  in  her  pride — to  give  her 
up,  and  that  the  giving  her  up  will  not  cost  him  his  life — 
will  not  break  his  heart,  or  even  cause  it  any  very  mortal 
pain.  "  I  deny  your  right  to  employ  such  a  word  to  me ; 
if  I  were  a  hundred  times  your  wife,  I  should  refuse  to  be 
ordered  about  like  a  dog  !  If  you  expect  the  tame  docility 
of  a  slave,  you  had  better  go  to  your  cousin  for  it,  for  you 
certainly  will  not  get  it  from  me." 

He  bows  gravely. 

"  It  is  fortunate,  at  least,  that  we  have  discovered  the 
discrepancy  of  our  ideas  of  marriage  before  it  is  too  late. 
Thank  you,  at  least,  for  telling  me  now,  instead  of  later." 

"  Yes,"  she  answers,  breathing  hard  and  short ;  her 
face  altered  and  contorted  by  the  fatal  excitement  that  is 
hurrying  her  to  her  destruction  ;  "  if  I  made  you  love  me, 
as  you  generously  say,  I  will,  at  least,  not  make  you  marry 
me." 

He  stands  mute,  all  his  face  white  and  quivering,  unable 
to  master  himself  enough  to  reply  to  her  gibes  with  calm- 
ness, and  not  willing  to  descend  to  the  unmanliness  of  re- 
crimination. Then,  at  length,  he  speaks,  with  a  slow  and 
bitter  smile : 

"  You  have  given  me  a  lesson  that  I  shall  not  forget  in 
a  hurry.  I  confess  that  I  had  not  thought  myself  a  vain 
man,  but  to-night  has  proved  me  to  have  been  egregiously 
misled  by  my  own  conceit.  Do  you  know — you  will  hard- 
ly believe  me — laugh  at  me,  I  give  you  leave — but  for  the 
last  six  months  I  have  been  reproaching  myself  with  the 
thought  that,  well  and  heartily  as  I  loved  you,  you  loved 
me  even  better — that  you  were  giving  more  than  you  re- 


254  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

ceived  ?  I  am  disabused,  Lenore  "  (speaking  very  slowly, 
and  planting  each  word  like  a  sword-thrust  in  her  heart)  ; 
"  you  are  incapable  of  loving  any  one  but  yourself — any 
thing  but  your  own  will.  I  have  done  with  you!" 

As  he  speaks,  unmindful  of  the  usages  of  society,  for- 
getting that  she  has  asked  him  to  take  her  back  to  her 
chaperone,  he  turns  to  leave  her.  At  the  door  he  pauses 
to  take  one  good-bye  look  at  the  fair,  proud  woman  he  has 
resigned.  Her  eyes  are  gazing  vacantly  at  him,  and  her 
lips  seem  moving.  In  a  moment  more  he  is  gone.  She 
remains  in  the  same  position  in  which  he  left  her :  she  does 
not  move  a  finger.  Her  great,  wide  eyes  keep  staring  at 
the  door  by  which  he  went  out,  and  her  lips  repeating  his 
last  words,  "  I  have  done  with  you — done  with  you — done 
with  you  !  "  They  do  not  convey  the  slightest  meaning  to 
her  mind.  By  dint  of  saying  them  over  and  over  again, 
they  grow  to  sound  unfamiliar,  grotesque.  She  half  laughs. 
How  long  she  remains  in  this  semi-stunned  state,  she  does 
not  know.  The  fiddles  squeak  distantly,  and  the  people 
pass  and  repass  ;  but  she  heeds  neither.  She  is  recalled  to 
herself,  at  last,  by  the  entrance  of  a  man,  who  first  looks 
in  uncertainly,  and  then  comes  in  joyfully — Scrope. 

"  Why,  here  you  are  ! "  he  cries,  cheerfully.  "  I  have 
been  hunting  high  and  low  for  you.  I  thought  you  were 
with  Le  Mesurier.  This  is  our  dance — Good  God ! "  (with 
an  abrupt  change  of  tone)  "  what  has  happened  ?  " 

His  voice  brings  her  back  to  her  right  mind — brings 
the  bitter,  bitter  truth  rolling  over  her  soul  like  a  black 
flood.  Paul  gone — gone  for  good  ! — gone  with  a  look  of 
inexorable  displeasure  on  his  face,  and  she  herself  has  thrown 
him  away ! 

"  What  has  happened  ? "  she  says,  in  a  sharp,  harsh 
voice.  "Do  you  ask  that?  Why,  just  this"  (laughing 
rather  wildly) — "  I  have  been  amusing  myself  cutting  my 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SATS.  255 

own  throat.  That  is  what  has  happened,  and  I  have  to 
thank  you  for  it." 

He  looks  at  her  in  unbounded  astonishment.  Has  she 
gone  mad,  as  her  words  seem  to  imply  ? 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"I  mean,"  she  answers,  speaking  more  collectedly, 
"  that  Paul  is  gone — he  does  not  like  me  any  longer — he 
has  done  with  me  /"  (falling  unconsciously  into  his  own 
form  of  expression). 

"  WHAT  ! " 

"  Don't  look  glad  !  "  she  cries,  excitedly.  "  How  dare 
you  f  If  you  look  glad,  I  shall  kill  you  !  " 

"  I  am  not  looking  glad.  What  should  I  look  glad  for  ? 
I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about." 

"  You  have  got  your  wish,"  she  says,  rising  and  speak- 
ing with  slow  vindictiveness.  "  You  have  parted  us !  It 
is  what  you  have  been  aiming  at  all  along.  I  hope  you 
are  pleased." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  have  been  quarrelling 
about  me  again  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do  !  "  she  answers,  panting,  and  looking  at  him 
always  with  dilated  eyes.  "  You  knew  we  should.  That 
was  why  you  remained  here  when  I  begged  you  to  go,  when 
any  gentleman  would  have  died  sooner  than  stay." 

The  young  man  bites  his  lip  till  it  bleeds  ;  he  clinches 
his  hands  convulsively  ;  he  writhes  under  her  insults  ;  but 
he  makes  no  retort. 

"  Was  it  because  you  danced  with  me  ?  "  he  asks,  quiet- 
ly, after  an  interval. 

"  You  know  it  was,"  she  answers,  petulantly.  "  Why 
do  you  keep  worrying  me  with  these  questions  ?  He  told 
me  not  to  dance  with  you,  and  I  said  I  would ;  I  thought 
it  was  fine  to  have  a  spirit — you  have  always  told  me,  all 
of  you,  what  a  fine  spirit  I  had.  Well,  God  knows " 


256  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

(laughing  harshly),  "  I  have  been  spirited  enough  to- 
night ! " 

A  little  silence. 

"  If  he  had  but  known,"  she  says,  looking  scornfully  at 
her  companion,  "how  small  the  sacrifice  was  that  he  asked 
of  me,  he  would  not  have  insisted  so  much  upon  it." 

Scrope's  endurance  fails  a  little. 

"  You  are  making  mountains  of  mole-hills,"  he  says, 
impatiently.  "  As  far  as  I  can  understand,  you  have  had 
a  little  misunderstanding — I  do  not  see  how  any  one  could 
well  live  with  you  without  having  them — a  misunderstand- 
ing which  you  will  make  up  within  the  first  five  minutes  of 
your  next  meeting — that  is  all." 

"  It  is  not  all ! "  she  answers,  persistently.  "  We  have 
had  a  hundred  such  misunderstandings  as  you  describe — 
they  were  always  my  fault — always — and  made  them  up 
again;  but  this  was  different.  When  he  turned  at  the 
door  and  looked  at  me,  I  felt  that  it  was  all  over  with  me." 

As  she  speaks,  she  sinks  upon  the  sofa  again ;  her  arms 
fall  heavily  to  her  side ;  the  listlessness  of  despair  is  ex- 
pressed in  her  whole  attitude. 

"  Fiddlesticks  !  "  replies  Scrope,  brusquely.  "  A  man 
throw  a  girl  over  to  whom  he  is  passionately  attached,  be- 
cause she  says  a  few  nasty  things  to  him — more  especial- 
ly "  (smiling,  a  little  maliciously),  "  when  she  has  rather 
got  into  a  habit  of  saying  nasty  things  to  everybody !  A 
very  likely  tale.  No,  no ;  though  you  are  engaged  to 
Paul,  and  I  am  not,  I  think  I  know  him  a  little  better  than 
you  do,  still." 

She  shakes  her  head ;  his  words  convey  neither  convic- 
tion nor  comfort  to  her  mind. 

"  Listen !  "  says  the  young  man,  eagerly,  sitting  down 
on  the  sofa  beside  her.  „  "  Since  I  came  into  this  room  you 
have  been  unciviller  to  me  than  ever  woman  was  to  man 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  257 

before ;  once  or  twice  I  have  felt  as  if  I  should  like  to  kill 
you,  or  myself,  or  both ;  but  you  said  one  true  thing — it  is  I 
that  have  brought  this  on  you  ;  and  so,  I  suppose  "  (rather 
(  ruefully)  "  the  least  I  can  do  is  to  try  and  put  things 
straight  again  for  you ;  I  will  go  and  look  for  him — he  can- 
not have  gone  far — most  likely  "  (sighing  a  little  derisive- 
ly) "  I  shall  find  him  in  the  supper-room — and  I  will  bring 
him  back  to  you,  see  if  I  don't." 

"  Will  you  ?  "  she  says,  with  a  bitter  smile.  "  There 
will  be  two  to  that  bargain  ! " 

Before  she  can  say  more  he  is  gone. 

The  minutes  pass  :  five,  ten ;  she  sits  with  her  eyes  riv- 
eted on  the  door,  saying  over  to  herself,  "  There  is  no  hope, 
there  is  no  hope,"  but  all  the  while,  hope  is  there.  After 
a  space,  which  the  clock  announces  to  be  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  but  which  is  marked  on  the  dial-plate  of  her  heart  as 
ten  years,  Scrope  reenters — alone. 

"  I  could  not  find  him  anywhere,"  he  says,  advancing 
with  his  eyes  on  the  ground ;  "  he  has  gone.  For  Heav- 
en's sake,  keep  up  "  (seeing  her  face  change  and  quiver 
convulsively).  "  Don't  look  so  miserable !  It  is  only  the 
delay  of  a  few  hours — it  will  be  all  right  to-morrow  morning." 

"  It  will  never  be  all  right  ag-ain,"  she  cries,  bursting 
into  violent  weeping,  and  throwing  her  head  down  on  the 
hard  horse-hair  bolster  of  the  sofa.  "  O  Paul !  Paul !  " 

The  sight  of  her  misery  sets  him  beside  himself.  He 
flings  himself  on  his  knees  beside  her,  catches  hold  of  one 
of  her  hands,  that  is  hanging  down  limp  and  nerveless, 
and,  rashly  trusting  to  her  absorption,  kisses  it  over  and 
over  again.  After  all,  it  is  only  white  kid  that  gets  the 
benefit  of  his  caresses. 

His  action  rouses  her — she  sits  upright ;  the  lightning 
flashes  at  him  from  her  drowned  eyes ;  the  hot  carnation 
scorches  up  the  tears  on  her  cheeks. 


258  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

"  How  dare  you  ?  "  she  cries  wildly,  tearing  her  hand 
out  of  his  grasp.  "  I  shall  always  hate  my  hand  for  having 
been  kissed  by  you — you,  who  have  brought  me  to  this  ! 
If  I  did  not  know  that  it  was  useless  to  ask  any  favor  of 
you,  I  would  beg  you,  at  least,  to  relieve  me  of  the  sight 
of  you." 

He  rises  to  his  feet ;  a  spasm  contracts  his  angry,  beau- 
tiful face. 

"  I'm  going,  never  fear.  I  begin  to  agree  with  you, 
that  I  cannot  be  a  gentleman,  or  I  should  have  gone  long- 
ago."  After  a  pause  :  "  I  have  sent  for  my  things  from 
your  sister's  house.  I  shall  go  to  London  by  the  next 
train." 

"  Thank  God,  at  least  for  that ! "  she  says,  fiercely. 
"  The  last  and  only  boon  I  have  to  ask  of  you  is,  that  I 
may  never  set  eyes  on  you  again." 

He  bows. 

"  I  promise  you  that  you  shall  not  unless  you  send  for 
me!" 

She  laughs  insultingly. 

"  You  will  wait  some  time,  if  you  wait  for  that." 

"  Lenore "  (taking  her  hand,  whether  she  will  or  no, 
while  his  eyes  burn,  savage  and  passionate,  into  hers) 
"  you  will  make  some  one  murder  you,  some  day.  Good- 
bye!" 


CHAPTER  X. 

WHAT     JEMIMA     SAYS. 

"  QUITE  incomprehensible,"  says  Sylvia,  slightly  shak- 
ing her  head,  and  turning  the  tap  of  the  urn  on  to  the 
recipient  teapot. 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  259 

We  are  at  breakfast ;  breakfast  after  a  ball  is  a  languid 
feast :  one  looks  green,  one  is  yawning,  one  drinks  two 
cups  of  tea  instead  of  one.  From  another  evil,  to  which 
some  people  are  subject,  I  am  free — I  never  suffer  from  the 
cramps  that  result  from  over-dancing.  Sylvia  and  I  are 
the  only  ones  that  have  yet  made  our  appearance :  after 
all,  there  are  only  two  more  to  appear — Paul  and  Lenore — 
for  Mr.  Scrope  has  gone  overnight,  or  rather  this  morning, 
and  it  is  d  propos  of  his  departure  that  Sylvia  is,  for  the 
fiftieth  time,  expressing  her  astonishment,  her  displeasure, 
her  remorse. 

"  So  ill-bred,"  she  continues,  nibbling  a  piece  of  toast ; 
"  so  unlike  him.  I  have  always  said  what  a  particularly 
gentlemanlike  boy  Charlie  .Scrope  was !  Do  you  know, 
Jemima,  it  has  struck  me  once  or  twice  that  perhaps  he 
was  hurt  at  my  refusing  so  point-blank  to  sit  out  in  the 
corridors  with  him  ?  Very  unreasonable  of  him  if  he  was 
so,  for  I  meant  nothing  personal  to  him ;  I  said  the  same 
to  them  all." 

I  shake  my  head  with  an  air  of  superior  information. 

"  It  was  not  quite  such  a  sudden  thought  as  all  that ; 
earlier  in  the  day  he  had  settled  to  go." 

"  And  never  mentioned  it  to  me  ?  "  cries  my  sister,  rais- 
ing her  voice  a  little,  and  coloring.  "  Most  extraordinary ! 
Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  Jemima,  he  has  been  very  odd 
and  distrait  for  a  week  past ;  several  times  when  I  spoke 
to  him,  he  answered  quite  d  tort  et  d  travers,  and  once  or 
twice  he  did  not  answer  at  all." 

I  shrug  my  shoulders. 

"  They  are  all  alike ;  determination  of  Lenore  to  the 
brain ;  when  Lenore  is  in  the  room,  they  never  answer  me. 
I  am  quite  used  to  it;  are  not  you?  For  the  last  five 
years  I  have  walked  through  life  with  a  gooseberry-bush 
in  my  hand." 


260  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

"  She  is  very  nice-looking,  of  course,"  says  Sylvia,  in  a 
rather  demurring  voice,  not  seeming  particularly  to  relish 
the  being  put,  by  implication,  in  the  same  boat  with  me. 

"  I  am  sure  I  am  the  last  person  to  gainsay  that ;  no- 
body can  accuse  me  of  not  being  willing  to  admit  other 
people's  good  looks  ;  but  there  is  no  denying  that  she  is  on 
too  large  a  scale  to  suit  some  people's  tastes  :  many  men 
prefer  something  more  petite  and  mignonne" 

"  Do  they  ?  "  say  I,  skeptically.  "  I  do  not  know.  It 
seems  to  me  that  most  men  like  a  woman  that  there  is  a 
good  deal  of." 

"  I  do  not  think  I  quite  liked  the  way  she  did  her  hair 
last  night,"  says  Sylvia,  taking  some  honey,  and  looking  at 
it  pensively  as  it  slides  in  a  long  string  from  the  spoon  ; 
"  too  much  scratched  off  her  face." 

With  what  clever  stroke  of  caustic  wit,  or  incisive 
irony,  I  might  have  parried  this  thrust  will  never  now  be 
certainly  known,  for  at  this  moment  a  footman  enters  with 
a  note,  which  he  hands  to  Sylvia.  She  opens  it  and  reads ; 
apparently  it  does  not  take  long  to  peruse. 

"  Are  all  the  people  run  mad  ?  "  she  cries,  in  a  tone  of 
peevish  astonishment,  tossing  it  over  to  me.  I  pick  it  up. 

"  DEAR  MRS.  PRODGERS  :  I  must  apologize  to  you  for 
leaving  your  house  so  suddenly,  and  at  so  untimely  an 
hour;  but,  the  fact  is,  I  am  unavoidably  called  away. 
Thank  you  over  and  over  again  for  all  the  kindness  and 
hospitality  you  have  shown  me. 

"  I  remain,  yours  very  truly, 

"PAUL  LE  MESTJRIER." 

"  Is  Mr.  Le  Mesurier  gone  ?  "  cry  I  to  the  footman,  who 
is  in  the  act  of  leaving  the  room. 
"  Yes,  5m." 


WHAT  JEMIMA   SAYS.  261 

"  What  time  did  he  go  ?  " 

"  About  seven,  'm.  I  heard  him  telling  the  driver  that 
he  must  catch  the  7.25  up-train  from  Norley." 

"  I  wonder  did  he  and  Charley  travel  together,"  say  I, 
sotto  voce,  tickled,  despite  myself,  by  the  notion  of  the 
rivals  boxed  up  together,  within  the  narrow  precincts  of  a 
smoking-carriage,  for  all  the  long  transit  between  Norley 
and  London. 

"  Did  he  leave  nothing  besides  this  ? "  cries  Sylvia,  in 
indignant  excitement,  holding  up  the  little  billet  between 
her  finger  and  thumb;  " no  message — nothing?" 

"  I  believe,  'm,  there  was  a  letter  for  Miss  Lenore." 

"  Where  is  it  ?  what  has  become  of  it  ?     Bring  it  here." 

"  If  you  please,  'm,  I  think  Nicholls  took  it  up  to  Miss 
Lenore  an  hour  ago." 

He  retires,  inwardly  amused,  interested,  compassionate, 
no  doubt ;  outwardly  as  absolutely  indifferent  to  the  joys, 
the  sorrows,  the  deaths,  the  marriages,  the  jiltings  and 
being  jilteds,  of  his  family,  as  is  incumbent  on  any  servant 
who  wishes  to  keep  his  situation. 

The  urn  sputters  and  fizzes ;  the  pug  sits  on  his  haunch- 
es, with  his  blear  eyes  rolling,  and  gives  a  short,  suppressed 
bark,  that  means  "  Muffin."  We  stare  at  one  another. 

"  I  thought  there  was  something  wrong  last  night,  when 
Lenore  said  he  had  gone  home  with  a  headache,"  say  I, 
with  that  sort  of  back-handed  prophecy — that  "told-you- 
so  "  wisdom — for  which  women  are  so  remarkable. 

"  So  did  I,"  says  Sylvia,  determined  not  to  be  behind- 
hand in  sapience. 

Again  we  stare  at  one  another,  with  our  toast  dropped 
from  our  fingers,  and  our  tea  quickly  cooling  in  the  frosty 
morning  air. 

"  I  think  I  will  go  and  see  how  she  is  getting  on,"  I 
say,  rising. 


262  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  So  will  I,"  says  Sylvia,  rising,  too. 

This  is  not  quite  what  I  wish,  but  it  cannot  be  helped. 
As  we  pass  the  nursery,  the  children,  hearing  our  foot- 
steps, shoot  out  like  bomb-shells,  and  join  us. 

By  the  time  we  reach  Lenore's  door  we  form  a  quite 
considerable  cortege^  both  as  to  noise  and  numbers. 

I  knock — no  answer.  I  knock  again.  "  Lenore,  may  I 
come  in  ?  "  Still  no  answer.  I  try  the  handle — it  is  locked. 
I  announce  the  fact. 

"  How  very  odd  ! "  says  Sylvia,  rattling  the  handle  in 
her  turn.  "  Lenore !  Lenore  !  we  are  all  come  to  see  you. 
Let  us  in ! " 

I  do  not  myself  think  this  form  of  request  likely  to 
invite  compliance ;  but,  whether  it  is  or  not,  it  meets  with 
no  better  success  than  its  predecessors. 

"  Do  you  think  she  can  have  got  out  of  the  window  ?  " 
suggests  my  sister,  beginning  to  look  rather  tragic. 

"  Absurd  !     Why  should  she  ?  " 

Again  we  knock  and  rattle,  each  one  in  turn,  and  then 
altogether.  No  result. 

"  Suppose  you  look  through  the  key-hole,  Jemima  ? " 
says  Sylvia. 

I  comply.  A  key-hole  is  an  unsatisfactory  vehicle  for 
exercising  sight.  At  my  first  glance,  I  see  nothing ;  at  my 
second,  I  dimly  discern  what  looks  like  a  rose-colored  heap 
lying  on  the  hearth-rug — Lenore  has  a  rose-colored  dress- 
ing gown. 

"  She  is  lying  on  the  hearth-rug,"  I  announce  in  a  whis- 
per. "  Poor  soul !  I  am  afraid  that  she  is  taking  it  sadly 
to  heart." 

"  Lying  on  the  hearth-rug !  "  repeats  Sylvia,  turning 
rather  pale,  and  clutching  my  arm. 

"  Good  Heavens !  Jemima,  I  hope  she  has  not — has 
not — put — put  an  end  to  herself !  " 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  263 

"  Fiddlesticks  !  "  cry  I,  angrily.  "  Why  should  she  ? 
How  could  she  ?  Swallowed  the  poker,  I  suppose,  or  cut 
her  throat  with  a  small-tooth  comb." 

Sylvia  applies  her  eye,  in  turn,  to  the  key-hole. 

"  Lenore  !  "  (raising  her  voice),  "  why  are  you  lying  on 
the  hearth-rug  ?  What  are  you  doing  ?  You  are  fright- 
ening us  all  out  of  our  wits.  Open  the  door  this  in- 
stant." 

We  hear  a  noise  inside  ;  in  a  moment  more  the  door  is 
flung  roughly  open,  and  Lenore  confronts  us  in  her  dress- 
ing-grown— her  undressed  hair  falling  in  a  long,  bright- 
brown  shower  about  her  face,  which  is  ash-white.  Her 
eyes  are  red,  and  her  eyelids  redder — the  first  are  half  and 
the  latter  double  their  normal  size. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  she  says,  hoarsely.  "  Why  are 
you  making  this  noise  ?  What  has  brought  you  all  here  ?  " 

A  daunted  silence  falls  upon  us  for  a  moment,  then 
Sylvia  speaks : 

"  Nothing  particular,  dear ;  we  only  wanted  to  know 
what  has  made  Paul  take  himself  off  so  suddenly,  and  we 
thought  you  might  be  able  to  tell  us." 

"  I  neither  know  nor  care,"  she  answers,  fiercely ;  but  I 
see  both  lips  and  eyelids  twitching. 

"  Aunty  Lenore,  how  red  your  nose  is  !  "  cries  Bobby, 
with  all  that  delicacy  for  other's  feelings,  that  charming 
reticence,  so  characteristic  of  infancy ;  staring  at  her  the 
while,  with  eyes  as  black  and  round  as  the  plums  in  a 
Christmas  pudding.  The  last  straw  breaks  the  camel's 
back. 

"  Had  not  you  better  send  for  the  servants  and  the 
stablemen,  the  dogs  and  the  parrot  ?  "  cries  Lenore,  turn- 
ing savagely  to  Sylvia.  "  It  is  a  pity  that  you  should  not 
have  every  living  thing  in  the  house  to  gape  at  me." 

"Go  down-stairs,"  say  I,  pleadingly,   "and  take  the 


264  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

children  with  you.  I  will  be  down  directly ;  perhaps  she 
will  let  me  speak  to  her  myself." 

With  many  demurrings,  both  of  word  and  look,  Sylvia 
complies,  and  retires  with  her  offspring". 

I  follow  Lenore  into  her  room,  and  close  the  door. 

"Is  it  true  ?  "  I  say,  compassionately,  taking  her  hot, 
reluctant  hand. 

"Is  what  true?" 

"  That  he  is  gone." 

"  I  really  cannot  say ;  I  have  not  been  to  look  for  him," 
she  answers,  in  a  devil-may-care  voice,  averting  her  eyes. 

"  Lenore  !  "  I  cry,  reproachfully,  "  what  is  the  good  of 
keeping  up  this  affectation  with  me  ?  It  is  all  very  well 
before  Sylvia ;  but  have  you  forgotten  that  night  at  Mor- 
laix,  when  you  were  so  happy,  and  when  you  came  and 
told  me  all  about  it  ?  " 

"  I  remember,"  she  answers,  with  a  hard  laugh ;  "  and 
how  pleased  you  were  at  being  waked  out  of  your  beauty- 
sleep,  and  how  kind  and  complimentary  you  were  about 
him." 

"  I  was  not  kind,"  I  answer,  rather  crest-fallen.  "  I 
was  sleepy,  and  very  ill-natured,  and  rather  envious ;  but  I 
am  not  ill-natured  now.  I  would  help  youy  if  I  knew  how ; 
and,  though  you  are  determined  to  hide  it  from  me,  I  know 
what  you  are  feeling." 

"  Then  you  know  more  than  I  do  myself,"  replies  my 
sister,  quite  collectedly.  "  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor, 
at  the  present  moment  I  feel  absolutely  nothing." 

I  am  not  generally  short  of  words,  but  I  can  find  none 
now. 

" "When  I  first  got  that"  she  continues,  nodding  her 
head  toward  a  note  which  lies  open  on  the  dressing-table  ; 
"  you  know  I  had  been  buoying  myself  up  with  hope  all 
night,  because  he  came  back  here,  instead  of  going  straight 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  265 

away — I  thought  it  a  good  sign — but  when  I  got  that  I 
think  I  must  have  gone  mad  for  five  minutes — do  people 
ever  go  mad  for  such  a  short  time  ? — I  found  myself  down 
on  the  hearth-rug,  beating  my  head  against  the  floor.  That 
was  wise,  was  not  it  ?  So  likely  to  bring  him  back.  Je- 
mima !  "  (grasping  my  arm  with  her  burning  hand),  "  I  am 
going  to  tell  you  a  secret ;  if  I  could  have  found  any  thing 
to  do  it  with,  I  should  have  tried  to  put  an  end  to  myself. 
I  should  have  done  it  in  a  bungling,  journeyman  way,  and 
very  likely,  when  I  got  into  the  other  world,  I  should  have 
been  sorry  that  I  had  not  stayed  here ;  still,  I  should  have 
tried ;  but  you  see  "  (laughing)  "  it  is  difficult  for  the  best- 
intentioned  person  to  commit  suicide  with  a  cake  of  Wind- 
sor soap  or  a  back-hair  glass  !  " 

"  Lenore  !  "  I  cry,  angrily,  "  you  frighten  me  !  Why 
do  not  you  cry  ?  Why  do  you  laugh  ?  I  wish  you  would 
not  look  so  odd  !  " 

"  Do  I  look  odd  ?  "  she  says,  rising  and  going  over  to 
the  long  cheval  glass.  "  Well,  yes "  (making  a  derisive 
bow  to  her  own  swollen,  disfigured  image),  "a  charming- 
looking  person  —  the  belle  of  the  ball!  I  always  told 
Paul "  (a  sharp  contraction  of  the  muscles  of  her  face  as 
she  speaks  his  name)  "  that  I  looked  nothing  without  my 
plaits." 

I  stand  stupidly  staring  at  her,  with  my  hands 
clasped. 

"  If  you  want  to  ask  any  questions,  now  is  your  time," 
she  continues,  calmly  ;  "  it  will  be  back  on  me  just  now — 
rushing,  tearing  back ;  but  for  the  moment  I  feel  as  little 
as  you  do,  or,  if  possible,  less  ;  I  say  over,  '  Paul  is  gone ! ' 
and  then  *  Charlie  is  gone ! '  and  the  one  fact  seems  as  little 
afflicting  as  the  other." 

"Lenore,  are  you  speaking  truth  ?  "  I  cry,  incredulously. 
"  You  look  as  if  you  were  1  Tell  me,  if  you  are  sure  you 


266  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

can  bear  to  do  it,  how  was  it  ?     You  know  I  am  quite  in 
the  dark.     How  did  it  come  about  ?  " 

"  Incompatibility  of  opinion  about  Mr.  Scrope,"  she 
answers,  with  a  forced  laugh ;  then,  sinking  down  on  the 
floor,  hiding  her  face  in  the  folds  of  my  gown  like  a  child  : 
"  I  do  not  think  I  will  tell  you,  after  all,"  she  says,  moan- 
ing ;  "  when  one's  ship  has  gone  down,  what  is  the  good 
of  going  into  the  details  of  the  wreck  ?  " 

At  the  last  word  she  breaks  into  tumultuous  weep- 
ing. 

"Perhaps  it  has  not  gone  down,"  say  I,  eagerly. 
"  Who  knows  ?  Let  me  see  the  note.  May  I  ?  "  stretch- 
ing out  my  hand  to  take  it. 

"  If  you  like."  Then,  laughing  again  painfully  between 
her  sobs :  "  It  is  not  so  affectionate  that  one  need  be 
ashamed  of  showing  it." 

I  pick  it  up  eagerly.  It  is  not  very  tidily  written, 
scratchily  rather,  and  shakily ;  several  of  the  little  words 
are  left  out : 

"December  28th,  $%  A.  M. 

"  I  would  not  have  come  back  here  last  night,  if  I 
could  have  helped  it ;  but  it  was  unavoidable.  I  shall,  at 
least,  not  intrude  upon  your  sight  again,  as  I  shall  be  gone 
hours  before  you  are  up.  I  will  send  back  your  letters  in 
a  day  or  two ;  also,  if  you  insist  upon  it,  your  photographs. 
Do  not  send  back  any  thing  of  mine — it  is  the  last  favor  I 
ask  of  you.  P.  LE  M." 

I  touched  Lenore's  heaving  shoulder. 
"  Look  up !  "  I  say,  cheerfully.    "  I  am  in  better  spirits. 
There  is  hope  !  " 

She  lifts  her  heavy  head. 

"Hope  of  what?" 

Poor  soul !     The  tears  are  running  flat  races  down  her 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SATS.  267 

cheeks,  coursing  down  her  nose,  and  making  hot  wet  spots 
on  the  breast  of  her  smart  rose  dressing-gown. 

"  He  is  angry,"  I  say,  smiling ;  "  there  is  always  hope 
when  a  man  is  angry." 

She  does  not  answer  in  words,  but  she  draws  herself 
up  into  a  kneeling  posture,  and  clutches  my  arm  with  pain- 
ful tightness,  while  a  little  red  creeps  into  her  cheeks. 
There  is  already  plenty  in  her  nose  and  eyes.  With  her 
loose  streaming  hair,  and  upward  wet  eyes,  she  looks  a 
Magdalen  all  over.  The  old  painters,  if  you  remark,  have 
a  knack  of  making  their  Magdalens'  noses  a  little  red. 

"  If  you  wish  it,  and  are  willing  to  take  him  on  his  own 
terms,  I  believe  you  may  get  him  back." 

Still  she  says  nothing ;  only  the  clasp  on  my  arm  tight- 
ens, till  I  wriggle  uncomfortably  under  it. 

"  You  must,  of  course,  write  at  once,"  I  say,  in  a  mat- 
ter-of-fact voice,  "  and  tell  him  that  you  are  sorry,  and  that 
you  will  not  do  it — whatever  it  was — again." 

"  Say  I  am  sorry  !  "  cries  Lenore,  starting  to  her  feet. 
"  Eat  dirt,  and  go,  like  a  whipped  child,  with  its  finger  in 
its  mouth,  and  say,  *  I'll  be  good  ! '  Not  if  I  know  it !  " 

She  no  longer  looks  like  a  Magdalen,  or,  if  she  does,  it 
is  a  very  restive  one. 

"  Very  well,"  say  I,  coolly,  "  if  you  prefer  your  pride  to 
your  lover,  of  course  it  is  a  matter  of  taste  which  is  best 
worth  keeping.  I  have  no  more  to  say." 

No  answer. 

"  I  see,"  continue  I,  with  affected  enthusiasm,  "  you  are 
conscious  that  you  were  in  the  right,  and  that  he  was  so 
completely  in  the  wrong  that  the  first  advance  must  come 
from  him.  I  understand,  of  course  !  I  respect  you." 

"  Do  not !  "  cries  Lenore,  gruffly.  "  I  was  not  in  the 
right — am  I  ever  ?  But  the  knowing  that  one  is  in  the 
wrong  does  not  make  it  any  the  easier  to  say  it." 


268  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  There  are  so  many  ways  of  implying  a  thing  without 
exactly  saying  it !  " 

Silence. 

"  My  dear  child,"  say  I,  stretching  out  my  hand  to  take 
one  of  hers,  which  is  twisting  and  turning  its  fellow  about, 
"  the  question  is,  how  can  you  live  best :  with  your  dig- 
nity and  without  Paul,  or  with  Paul  and  without  your 
dignity  ?  " 

She  falls  on  her  knees  beside  me  again  ;  she  buries  her 
face  in  my  lap. 

"Jemima,  never  tell  anybody,  and,  if  you  are  asked, 
say  that  it  is  not  so  ;  and  never  remind  me,  when  you  get 
angry,  that  I  have  said  it ;  but — but "  (very  indistinctly) 
"  I  would  eat  all  the  dirt  that  ever  was  in  all  the  world  to 
get  him  back  again — there !  "  (Looking  up  and  coloring 
violently.)  "  Was  there  ever  a  case  on  record  of  anybody 
having  said  any  thing  so  mean  ?  " 

I  shrug  my  shoulders. 

"  What  does  it  matter  about  being  mean,  so  as  one  is 
happy  ?  "  say  I,  with  a  philosophy  of  doubtful  morality,  if 
carried  out  to  its  final  consequences.  "  Write !  write ! 
WRITE  !  and,  if  possible  "  (picking  up  the  note  again,  and 
laughing),  "  write  with  a  better  pen  than  he  did,  Lenore  " 
(examining  it  more  narrowly).  "I  do  believe  he  cried  over 
it.  Look !  what  a  suspicious  blot  over  the  '  P.' ! " 

"  Only  a  sputtering  pen  or  bad  blotting-paper,"  replies 
Lenore.  But  she  is  laughing,  too,  and  there  is  an  alertness 
in  her  gait  as  she  walks  across  the  room  in  strong  contrast 
to  the  heavy  droop  of  her  attitude  five  minutes  ago.  "  Je- 
mima "  (her  poor  red  eyes  sparkling  again,  and  a  tender 
tremor  about  the  quivering  corners  of  her  mouth),  "  I  will 
write.  God  knows  what  will  come  of  it,  or  how  I  shall 
bear  the  waiting  for  the  answer ;  but — I  will  write." 

"  Do,"  say  I ;  and  then  I  draw  an  arm-chair  to  the  fire, 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  269 


and  Lenore  sits  down  to  the  writing-table.  The  opening 
sentences  seem  to  be  hatched  with  difficulty,  but  after  them 
her  pen  runs  glibly  enough ;  it  is  going  to  be  a  longer  let- 
ter than  his.  "  Lenore,"  say  I,  presently,  turning  my  head 
round,  and  speaking  diffidently,  "  I  think  that,  on  the  sup- 
position that  this  may  not  bring  him  back — a  most  improb- 
able one,  but  still  possible — I — (do  not  be  angry) — I  would 
not  make  it  too  affectionate."  She  flushes  scarlet,  reads  it 
hastily  over,  then  tears  it  into  a  thousand  bits,  and,  running 
over  to  the  fire,  tosses  the  fragments  in.  "  Nor  too  cold," 
I  subjoin,  rather  startled  at  the  effect  of  my  caution.  "  Do 
not  you  understand?"  I  continue,  eagerly.  "The  kind 
of  letter  you  should  write  is  one  that,  if  he  is  so  disposed, 
will  bring  him  back  again  •  and  that,  if  he  is  not  so  dis- 
posed, will  not  make  you  hot  to  think  of  having  sent  it." 

To  compose  such  a  letter  as  I  have  thus  described 
seems  a  hard  task.  The  hearth  is  strewn  with  little  shreds 
of  paper,  before  one  that  hits  the  golden  mean  between  the 
fond  and  the  frigid,  is  written  fairly  out  without  blots  or 
erasures. 

"  Will  you  read  it  ?  "  asks  my  sister,  holding  it  out  rather 
reluctantly  to  me,  when  it  is  at  length  finished.  "  I  think 
I  had  rather  you  did  not,  but  you  may,  if  you  wish." 

I  shake  my  head,  and  swallow  down  my  curiosity : 

"  Why  should  I  ?  It  is  between  you  and  him ;  what 
has  a  third  person  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

She  turns  away  relieved,  folds  it  up,  directs  it,  and  fast- 
ens the  envelope. 

"  Jemima,"  she  says,  clasping  my  arms  with  her  two 
hot  slender  hands,  while  her  great  solemn  eyes  fix  them- 
selves, feverish  and  miserably  excited,  on  mine,  "the  re- 
sponsibility of  this  lies  with  you.  I  do  hot  know  whether 
it  is  affectionate  or  not ;  I  cannot  judge — I  hardly  know 
what  is  in  it ;  but  if  it  fail,  the  shame  of  it  will  kill  me." 


2TO  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

CHAPTER    XI. 

WHAT     JEMIMA     SATS. 

AT  the  lowest  calculation  there  must  be  forty-eight 
hours  between  the  sending  of  any  letter  by  post  and  the 
receiving  of  the  answer.  In  most  cases  sixteen  or  eight- 
een of  these  hours  are  slidden  over  in  sleep ;  but  in  a  great 
anxiety,  who  can  sleep  ?  In  heavy  grief  one  may  sleep — 
probably  one  will ;  when  Hope  has  stolen  out  of  sight,  and 
Despair  sits  by  us  with  veiled  head,  then  one  sleeps  most 
deeply.  Sometimes,  in  slumber,  God  gives  us  back  our 
dead  :  him  that  but  yesterday  we  coldly  kissed  in  his  strait 
shroud,  we  see  coming  toward  us  with  life-colored  lips,  and 
open  eyes  :  the  dead  never  come  back  to  us  dead :  always 
they  are  alive— talking,  smiling,  occupied  in  some  common- 
place employment,  making  some  foolish,  tender  jest.  But 
Sleep  refuses  to  come  to  the  troubled,  who  have  yet  an  un- 
easy hope  :  she  will  not  be  made  use  of  merely  as  a  bridge 
over  obnoxious  hours :  she  will  be  loved  and  wooed  for 
herself,  or  else  she  will  stand  relentlessly  apart.  I  think 
that  there  are  very  few  of  the  thousands  of  minutes  that 
constitute  those  forty-eight  hours  that  do  not  find  Lenore 
consciously,  broadly  wakeful.  She  refuses  all  proposals 
that  tend  to  divert  her  thoughts  by  exercise  or  employ- 
ment :  she  will  not  walk — she  will  not  drive  ;  she  will  not 
even  come  down-stairs.  All  day  long  she  sits  in  the  win- 
dow-seat in  her  room — sits  there,  with  drooped  figure  and 
carelessly  dressed  hair ;  her  eyes  fixed  alternately  on  the 
brown  winter  outside,  or  the  avenue  by  which  all  carriages 
and  all  foot-passengers  must  approach  the  house,  and  on 
the  watch  which  lies  on  the  table  before  her ;  as  if  by  look- 
ing, looking,  she  could  make  the  slow  hands  pass  more 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  271 

swiftly  over  the  dial-plate.  O  unwise  Lenore  !  to  wish  to 
hurry  the  feet  of  the  swift  minutes  !  They  may  seem  un- 
sweet,  nay,  most  bitter,  according  to  our  present  gauge  of 
sweet  and  sour ;  but  oh  !  are  they  worse  than  the  deep, 
timeless  grave,  and  the  leaden-colored  shores  of  Eternity, 
toward  which,  in  their  flitting,  they  carry  us  ?  Once,  com- 
ing in  suddenly,  I  find  her  with  all  Paul's  letters  strewed 
round  her :  she  is  reading  them  all  through  in  order — from 
the  first  sea-sick  note  he  wrote  her  from  Jersey  on  his 
homeward  journey,  to  the  three  scrawling,  galloping  lines 
which,  less  than  a  week  ago,  announced  the  train  and  the 
hour  which  were  to  bring  him  back  to  her.  I  think,  poor 
soul !  she  is  trying  to  extract  more  love  than  is  in  them, 
from  the  loving  phrases  that  fill  them.  The  short  winter 
day  treads  heavily  past  to  his  rest,  and  the  night  comes — 
the  winter  night  in  its  dull  endlessness — then  the  dim,  late 
morning  light.  Lenore  makes  no  complaint,  and  cuts  me 
short  when  I  begin  inquiries ;  but  I  know  she  has  not  slept. 
The  postman  comes  and  goes  without  any  special  interest 
attaching  to  him ;  it  is  impossible  that  he  can  bring  any 
thing  yet. 

Another  day  walks  past  with  lagging  feet.  Lenore  will 
not  move,  will  not  eat :  all  her  life  seems  to  have  passed 
into  the  eyes  which  grow  to  the  face  of  the  watch  that  ticks 
ever  before  her.  She  has  turned  Paul's  picture,  which 
hangs  opposite  her  bed,  to  the  wall ;  when  I  ask  her  why 
she  has  done  it,  she  answers  that,  unless  he  is  hers,  she  has 
no  business  to  look  at  him. 

The  second  slow  day  dies :  its  life  is  so  faint  and  dark 
that  there  is  but  little  difference  between  it  and  its  death. 
Sylvia  and  I  dine  tete-d-ttte,  and  get  over  our  dinner  with  a 
surprising  and  feminine  celerity.  It  is  astonishing  how  the 
prescribe  of  even  one  man  prolongs  the  duration  of  dinner ; 
is  it  from  the  comparative  immensity  of  man's  appetite,  or 


272  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

from  the  stimulus  and  gentle  fillip  that  his  company  gives 
to  conversation  ?  We  yawn  through  the  evening,  and  at 
ten  retire  to  such  warm  depths  of  silky  sleep  as  one  ex- 
periences only  in  frosty  weather. 

It  is  rarely  indeed  that  others'  griefs  keep  one  awake. 
Our  letters  arrive  mostly  at  half-past  seven :  it  is  some  time 
before  that  hour,  and  in  my  curtained  and  sheltered  room 
absolute  darkness  still  reigns,  when  I  drowsily  hear  a  foot- 
step passing  along  the  corridor  outside  my  door.  From 
some  half-conscious,  half-dreamful  impulse,  I  jump  up  and 
run  to  the  door,  open  it,  and  look  out  into  the  black  chill- 
ness  outside. 

"  Lenore,  is  that  you  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ? "  (my  teeth  chattering  so  as 
to  make  me  almost  entirely  unintelligible). 

"What  is  that  to  you?"  Tired  of  her  incivilities, 
sleepy  and  shivering,  I  prepare  to  shut  the  door  in  a  huff. 
"  I  am  going  to  see  whether  the  postman  is  dead,  that  he 
is  so  long  in  coming,"  she  sa}^s,  in  a  quick,  excited  voice. 

"  It  is  not  nearly  time  for  him  ! — it  is  the  middle  of  the 
night ! " 

"  It  must  be  time  for  him,"  she  says,  petulantly ;  "  it 
must  be  three  years  since  he  was  here  last ! " 

"You  will  be  frozen,"  I  say,  laying  my  hand,  in  the 
dark,  on  the  thin  shawl  that  covers  her  shoulders ;  "  have 
my  seal-skin  ! "  She  does  not  heed  me. 

"  Jemima  "  (I  cannot  see  her  face,  but  I  hear  the  quick 
sobbing  breaths  with  which  she  speaks) — "  if  it  does  not 
come  to-day,  my  reason  will  tell  me  that  it  is  because  he  is 
not  at  home,  and  that  it  has  had  to  be  forwarded  to  him  ; 
but  all  the  same — reason,  or  no  reason — if  it  does  not  came, 
I  shall  go  mad!" 

Before  I  can  reply,  she  is  gone.     I  shiver  back  into  bed ; 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SATS.  273 

I  find  it  as  deeply,  downily  warm  as  I  left  it  ;  but  the  de- 
licious languor,  the  semi-unconsciousness,  fast  melting  into 
total  unconsciousness,  that  such  warmth  and  softness  woo, 
declines  to  come  again.  I  find  myself,  with  my  head  raised 
every  minute  from  the  pillow,  listening  for  that  back-com- 
ing footfall.  It  seems  a  long  time  coming  ;  perhaps  it  is  only 
half  an  hour  really  :  at  last  I  hear  it  —  I  spring  to  the  door. 

"Well?" 

A  gray  figure  runs  past  me,  with  its  head  bent,  but 
answers  nothing.  I  snatch  up  a  dressing-gown,  and  run, 
venire  d  terre,  after  it,  half  afraid  of  finding  the  door  locked, 
when  I  reach  my  sister's  room.  It  is  not  —  it  is  ajar  ;  I 
enter.  The  sick  dwarf  light  creeps  in  by  the  latticed  win- 
dow-panes ;  the  dead  fire's  ashes  lie  whitely  gray  upon  the 
hearth  ;  the  table  is  gray,  the  chairs  are  gray,  and  on  one 
of  them  a  gray  figure  lies  still  and  stiff,  with  gray  hands 
covering  its  face. 

"  What  is  it  ?  —  what  is  it  ?  "  I  cry,  horribly  excited,  run- 
ning up  to  her.  She  drops  her  hands  into  her  lap  ;  in  the 
dim  light  I  see  her  great  shining  eyes,  brimming  over  with 
anger  and  despair,  flame  into  mine. 

"  It  is  all  your  fault  !  "  she  says,  hoarsely  ;  "  you  did  it  ! 
I  have  lain  down  in  the  gutter,  and  he  has  walked  over  me, 
and  it  is  your  doing  !  " 


"  If  you  had  left  me  alone,  if  you  had  not  meddled  — 
you  were  always  a  meddler,  always  —  I  might  have  gone 
through  my  life,  hating  myself,  knowing  that  I  had  been  my 
own  death,  finding  no  taste  in  any  thing  ;  but  at  least  I  should 
not  have  had  to  get  red  whenever  I  thought  of  myself  —  at 
least  I  should  not  have  made  overtures  that  have  been  de- 
clined. I  should  not  have  asked  a  man  to  marry  me,  and 
been  politely,  but  firmly,  rejected  —  Good  God  !"  (breaking  off 
suddenly,  and  clinching  her  hands  above  her  head)  —  "  it  can- 


274  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

not  be  me  that  this  has  happened  to — it  must  be  somebody 
else.  I  that  always  held  my  head  so  high  ! " 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  "  I  stammer ;  "  he  can- 
not— he  has  not — " 

"  Has  not  he  ?  "  she  answers,  bitterly,  "  There  ! — read ! 
Can  you  see  ?  "  (walking  over  to  the  curtain  and  pulling  it 

back)  " '  My  dear  Miss  Herrick  / '  "When  I  got  as  far 

as  that  I  knew  it  was  all  over  with  me !  His  *  dear  Miss 
Herrick!'  'My  dear  Miss  Herrick!' — l  my  dear  Mr.  Le 
Mesurier ! '  Oh,  my  God ! " 

She  throws  herself  on  the  floor,  and  buries  her  face  in 
the  carpet,  wThile  her  hands  dig  themselves  into  it,  like 
those  of  a  man  in  the  death-agony.  After  all,  why  should 
the  soul's  death  be  accompanied  with  throes  less  bitter 
than  the  body's  ? 

"  How  can  I  read  it  ?  "  I  cry,  impatiently,  "  }^ou  are 
holding  it !  "  and,  indeed,  as  she  lies  prostrate  on  the  floor, 
it  is  crumpled  up  in  one  of  her  clinched  hands.  She  raises 
herself,  and  straightens  out  the  creased  paper. 

"  Look ! "  she  says,  striking  it  with  her  forefinger. 
"  See  how  straight  the  lines  run — how  firmly  the  letters 
are  formed — it  might  be  a  thesis  instead  of  a  death-war- 
rant !  Do  you  see  any  blots  here  f — do  you  think  he  cried 
over  this  f  " 

"  Give  it  me  !  "  I  say,  eagerly  stretching  out  my  hand ; 
"  let  me  see  it !  " 

"  Never !  "  she  answers,  tearing  it  sharply  across,  and 
then  again  across,  and  then  again  ;  "  it  is  between  him  and 
me — the  last  thing  that  ever  will  be  !  " 

I  kneel  down  beside  her  in  silence  in  the  cold  gray 
dawn,  and  put  my  arm  round  her. 

"Be  satisfied  with  knowing  the  upshot!"  she  says, 
with  a  dreary  smile.  "  He  says  it  very  kindly,  very  pret- 
tily, in  a  very  good,  bold  hand,  and  he  takes  six  pages  to 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  275 

say  it  in ;  but,  all  the  same,  the  drift  is,  *  I  have  had 
enough  of  you ! ' ' 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  "  I  exclaim,  with  a  gasp,  and  a  bitter 
sense  of  regret  at  my  share  in  the-  business. 

"  It  was  not  his  real  reason  for  leaving  me,"  says  Le- 
nore,  sitting  on  the  floor,  and  rambling  on  to  herself,  half 
under  her  breath.  "  It  was  only  a  blind — how  dull  of  me 
to  be  taken  in  ! — a  pretext  for  getting  back  to  her.  Yes,  I 
understand — I  understand.  I  suppose  I  do  get  wearisome 
after  a  time,  but "  (with  a  long,  low  moan)  "  it  was  such  a 
little,  little  time." 

A  pause. 

"  She  made  good  use  of  those  six  months,  did  not  she  ? 
— did  not  cry  at  him,  and  throw  herself  at  his  head,  as  I 
did ;  but  stole  up  to  him,  modestly,  with  her  eyes  down,  so 
that  he  did  not  find  it  out — she  always  was  his  beau  ideal 
of  feminine  excellence — yes,  yes  "  (running  dreamily  over 
in  her  mind  his  long-past  phrases),  " '  Eyes  like  a  shot  par- 
tridge ; '  '  Not  at  all  clever ; '  '  Does  not  say  much  ; '  *  Very 
loving.'  Yes,  his  beau  ideal — meek,  dowdy,  mealy-mouthed ! 
He  would  have  kept  to  her  always,  if  I  had  let  him 
alone.  I  am  glad  I  did  not.  I  had  my  day — I  had  my 
day ! " 

Her  hands  embrace  her  knees;  she  begins  to  rock 
gently  backward  and  forward. 

"  Stole  him  away,  bit  by  bit,  bit  by  bit ! "  she  continues, 
sighing  softly.  "  Jemima  ! "  (her  tone  altering,  and  her 
eyes  glittering  with  a  passion  of  despairing  jealousy), 
"  that  cousin  is  a  sweet  woman— I  know  she  is — charitable 
as  Dorcas,  patient  as  Griselda,  she  will  help  him  in  every- 
thing good,  and  hinder  him  in  every  thing  ill.  If  I  thought 
she  were  a  bad  woman,  and  that  he  would  repent  it,  I 
could  bear  it  better.  Oh,  my  God,  he  will  never  be  pun- 
ished ! — men  never  are.  Every  day  of  his  life  he  will  be 


2T6  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

gladder  and  gladder  that  he  is  rid  of  me — he  will  tell  her 
so — while  I — while  I — " 

She  raises  her  voice  wildly  at  the  last  words. 

"  Stop  ! "  I  cry,  angry  and  frightened.  "  Don't  look  so 
odd !  For  God's  sake,  see  him  as  he  is — look  at  him  as 
other  people  do — a  man  your  inferior  in  every  respect,  and 
who  never  really  loved  you." 

No  sooner  are  the  words  out  of  my  mouth  than  I  see 
that  I  have  been  guilty  of  one  of  my  many  breaches  of  tact. 

"  How  dare  you  say  that  ?  "  she  cries,  griping  my  arm. 
"  If  you  wish  to  say  such  things,  say  them  to  some  one 
else  ! — do  not  venture  to  say  them  to  me  !  If  you  are  go- 
ing to  tell  such  cruel  lies,  leave  my  room  this  instant! 
Never  really  loved  me  !  Much  you  know  about  it — you, 
whom  nobody  ever  loved.  Do  you  think  I  could  have 
been  mistaken  —  I,  who  was  with  him  all  day  —  who 
watched  his  face  ever  minute  ?  He  did  love  me  !  he  did! 
he  DID  !  Not  blindly,  not  foolishly  :  he  saw — he  could  not 
help  seeing — that  every  second  thing  I  did,  every  second 
word  I  said,  was  wrong  and  unladylike  ;  but  he  was 
making  me  better — every  day  he  was  making  me  better ! 
If  he  had  married  me,  I  should  have  been  a  good  wcman, 
and  he  would  have  taken  me  to  heaven  with  him ! " 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  that  he  is  going  there  himself !  "  I 
say,  spitefully. 

"  Say  that  you  did  not  mean  it — say  that  you  do  not 
think  it  really  !  "  continues  my  sister,  with  an  anguish  of 
entreaty  in  her  tone,  and  in  the  haggard  loveliness  of  her 
face.  "You  mean"  (with  a  wild  smile)  "he  has  taken 
away  the  present  and  the  future  !  If  you  take  away  the 
past,  too — if  you  take  away  that  day  at  Huelgoat — that 
day — that  day  "  (wandering  off  into  memory  again)  "  when 
I  knelt  on  the  cushion  of  little  marsh-flowers  by  the  brook, 
and  the  children  went  by  to  pick  bilberries :  if  you  take 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  277 

away  that  day,  and  the  days  at  Morlaix,  and  the  day  when 
we  stood  by  Chateaubriand's  tomb,  and  saw  the  waves  and 
the  sea-mews  below  us,  and  planned  how  we  should  walk 
on  through  life,  and  to  heaven  together — if  you  take  them 
away  from  me,  what  is  there  left  me  but  to  curse  God  and 
die?" 

I  shudder,  and  cry,  "  Hush,  hush  ! "  but  she  pays  no 
attention  to  me. 

"  She  might  as  well  have  left  him  to  me,"  she  con- 
tinues, presently,  pushing  Paul's  betrothal-ring  absently  up 
and  down  her  finger ;  "  she  could  have  done  so  well  with- 
out him  !  She  is  a  good,  religious  woman,  and  has  another 
happy  world  to  look  forward  to,  while  I — I  have  only  this. 
You  see,  Jemima,  it  is  only  we  wicked  people  that  can  lose 
all  at  one  blow." 

"  My  child,  my  child  !  "  I  cry,  snatching  her  two  hands ; 
"  what  are  you  talking  about  ?  I  do  not  want  to  preach 
to  you,  and  you  would  not  listen  to  me  if  I  did,  but  you 
frighten  me ;  it  is  like  daring  God  to  do  worse  to  you. 
How  can  you  have  lost  all  as  long  as  you  are  still  within 
the  bounds  of  His  great  clemency — as  long  as  you  are  still 
outside  hell's  gates  ?  " 

"Am  I?"  she  says,  with  a  flickering,  haggard  smile  ; 
"  are  you  so  sure  of  that  ?  As  I  came  along  the  meadows 
this  morning,  I  have  an  idea  that  I  had  a  good  notion 
how  they  feel  down  below.  Bah  ! "  (jumping  up  and  walk- 
ing to  the  window),  "  do  not  look  so  scared  ;  not  sleeping 
and  not  eating  make  one  light-headed.  I  am  getting 
quite  rantipole.  Get  me  something  to  drink — cognac — 
sal-volatile  —  it  does  not  matter  what,  so  that  it  is 
strong ! " 

I  hurry  back  to  my  own  room,  pour  some  sal-volatile 
and  water  into  a  glass,  and  return  with  it  to  her.  I  find 
her  lying  languidly  back  in  an  arm-chair,  pale  and  worn 


278  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

out,  but  with  open  eyes  and  a  set,  stony  face.  She  drinks 
eagerly,  and  then  gives  a  long,  low  sigh. 

"  Poor  soul,  poor  soul !  "  I  say,  pitifully,  stroking  her 
loose,  tossed  hair.  "  I  dare  say  you  think  it  is  easy  enough 
to  bear  other  people's  troubles,  and,  as  you  said  just  now, 
since  I  never  was  loved  myself,  I  cannot  enter  into  your 
feelings  ;  but  still,  do  you  know,  Lenore,  I  think  no  one  can 
well  be  sorrier  for  you  than  I  am  ?  " 

"  Really  ! "  (with  an  air  of  most  weary  indifference). 

"  Lenore,  you  are  not  a  weak  woman,  I  know  that ; 
don't  let  him  have  the  satisfaction  of  thinking  that  you 
take  it  to  heart !  Show  him  what  stuff  you  are  made  of, 
by  bearing  it  bravely  ! " 

"  Malie  an  effort,  in  fact,  like  Mrs.  Dombey,"  says  my 
sister,  smiling  sarcastically ;  "  or  rather  tmlike  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey. Never  fear !  Have  you  lived  with  me  nineteen  years, 
and  have  you  yet  to  learn  that  I  am  not  the  sort  of  woman 
to  go  about  with  my  pocket-handkerchief  to  my  eyes, 
whimpering  because  I  have  been  jilted — yes,  let  us  call 
things  by  their  right  names— -jilted!"  As  she  speaks,  a 
deep  carnation  flush  of  shame  spreads  over  her  white 
cheeks.  "  Go  now,"  she  says,  imperatively ;  "  leave  me ! 
There,  you  need  not  look  toward  the  windows  as  if  you 
thought  I  were  going  to  throw  myself  out  of  one  of  them 
— see,  they  are  all  bolted — and  I  would  not  make  such  a 
clumsy  ending  for  the  world." 

I  move,  unwilling  and  slow,  toward  the  door.  She 
calls  after  me : 

"  Jemima,  if  ever  you  tell  any  one  how  you  have  seen 
me,  and  what  things  you  have  heard  from  me,  during  the 
last  forty-eight  hours,  I  will  kill  you.  Let  them  think  I 
have  had  influenza — mumps — any  disease  you  choose  ;  but 
let  no  one  ever  guess  that  I  have  been  pining  three  whole 
days  for  love.  Bah  !  it  makes  me  laugh  to  think  of  it !  " 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SATS.  2Y9 

"Are  you  .sure  I  can  do  nothing  for  you?"  I  ask, 
staring  uncomfortably  at  her  forlorn,  wild  face. 

"  Certain  ! "  she  answers,  emphatically.  "  I  must  fight 
it  out  by  myself;  it  is  a  case  where  neither  man,  woman, 
nor  child,  can  help  me ! " 

"  If  neither  man,  wToman,  nor  child,  can  help  you,"  I 
say,  hesitatingly,  yet  eagerly,  "  why  not  go  to  God?  " 

She  shrugs  her  shoulders :  "  It  is  a  sort  of  trouble  that 
God  would  not  care  about ! " 

"  What  are  you  saying  ?  "  I  cry.  "  Is  God,  like  a  man, 
capricious  in  His  pity  ?  " 

"  I  think  so,"  she  answers,  listlessly ;  "  at  least  I  know 
He  does  not  pity  me." 

I  am  too  shocked  to  make  any  rejoinder. 

"  I  have  set  up  an  idol  in  the  place  of  God,"  she  says, 
gravely.  "  Can  I  expect  God  to  be  sorry  because  it  is 
knocked  down  ?  There — go !  You  are  a  good  woman  in 
your  way,  and  I  rather  like  you ;  but  you'll  never  make 
your  fortune  as  a  preacher  ! " 

Sadly  I  obey  her.  During  the  long,  weary  day  I  go 
about  heart-sore  and  anxious.  I  do  not  go  near  her  room 
myself,  nor  do  I  allow  any  one  else  to  do  so ;  but  my  heart 
is  gnawed  by  a  painful  curiosity  to  know  what  terrible 
death-fight  of  the  soul  is  raging  within  those  quiet  walls. 

As  Sylvia  and  I  sit  moping  and  flat  by  the  drawing- 
room  fire  before  dinner,  what  is  my  surprise  to  see  the 
door  open  and  admit  Lenore,  who  enters  with  a  brisk  step 
and  a  matter-of-fact  air ! 

"  Good-morning,  Sylvia ;  rather  late  in  the  day  to  say 
4  good-morning ' — is  not  it  ?  I  have  registered  a  vow  never 
to  go  to  a  ball  again ;  it  has  taken  me  three  whole  days  to 
recover  from  that  last  one ! " 

She  says  it  rather  as  if  it  were  a  lesson  learned  by  rote ; 
but  she  looks  alert  and  upright;  her  cheeks  are  colored 


280  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

with    pink,   and    her    eyes   are   neither    lack-lustre    nor 
wet. 

"  Aunty  Lenore ! "  cries  Bobby,  who  has  been  raging 
round  the  room  with  a  luckless  kitten  (mewing  with  pain 
and  exasperation,  and  with  all  its  claws  out)  clutched 
round  the  neck  with  strangling  tightness  in  his  cruel  little 
arms.  He  drops  the  kitten,  which  instantly  makes  off  with 
its  tail  straight  up.  "  Aunty  Lenore ! "  rushing  at  her, 
and  boisterously  embracing  her  knees,  to  the  injury  of  her 
crisp  muslin  dress:  then,  with  a  sudden  and  ingenious 
connection  of  ideas,  "  Where  is  Uncle  Paul  ?  " 

With  a  sudden  impulse  she  pushes  the  child  violently 
away.  I  see  her  face  writhe,  and  the  pupils  of  her  eyes 
darken  and  flash;  but,  in  an  instant,  controlling  herself, 
she  speaks,  calmly : 

"  He  is  gone  !  He  is  not  '  Uncle  Paul '  any  longer — 
and — and — don't  bother  about  him ! " 

As  we  pass  through  the  hall  to  dinner,  I  see  a  letter, 
in  Lenore's  handwriting,  lying  on  the  hall-table.  I  glance 
inquisitively  at  it ;  it  is  addressed  to — 

"  CHARLES  SCKOPE,  ESQ., 

"  Limmer's  Hotel." 


CHAPTER  XH. 

WHAT     JEMIMA     SAYS. 

IF  I  imagine  that  Lenore's  composed  cheerfulness  and 
equable  serenity  are  the  result  of  a  strain  so  strong  as  to 
be  unable  to  be  kept  up  beyond  one  evening,  I  am  mis- 
taken. I  find  her  the  same  the  next  morning,  and  the 
morning  after  that,  and  the  morning  after  that.  She  talks 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  281 

more  than  usual ;  ordinarily,  indeed,  she  is  too  lazy  to  take 
the  trouble  of  talking  merely  for  the  sake  of  contributing 
her  share  to  the  general  stock  that  forms  family  conversa- 
tion; but  now  she  talks  resolutely  to  any  one  who  will 
talk  to  her.  She  lounges  away  less  time  than  usual  in  her 
own  rooms ;  always  she  is  to  be  seen  in  the  general  sitting- 
rooms,  by  all  comers  and  goers,  working  and  reading  tran- 
quilly. She  drives  out  with  Sylvia  to  pay  morning-calls ; 
she  walks  out  with  me  into  the  village,  carrying  broth  and 
jelly.  Sometimes  I  try  to  surprise  her  face  off  guard,  to 
see  her  features  fall  into  the  haggard  lines  of  hopeless 
angry  grief  in  which  I  saw  them  so  lately  ;  but  I  fail ;  her 
face  seems  to  be  never  in  dishabille.  She  actually  plays 
with  the  children  ! — gambols  which,  I  confess,  remind  me 
of  the  millennium,  when,  we  are  told,  the  weaned  child 
shall  play  on  the  cockatrice's  den.  On  the  third  day,  I  am 
sitting  pondering  these  things  in  the  drawing-room,  which 
Lenore  has  just  left  with  a  light  and  buoyant  tread.  Syl- 
via, with  one  of  her  spasmodic  fits  of  maternity  upon  her, 
is  trying,  with  alternate  peevish  coaxings  and  caressing 
abuse,  to  lead,  or  rather  push,  pull,  and  mildly  flagellate, 
her  offspring  along  the  rosy  path  of  learning.  In  this  case, 
it  is  theological  learning,  as  represented  by  the  "  Peep  of 
Day."  Bobby  is  leaning  against  her  knee,  while  in  the 
corner — why  such  peculiar  ignominy  should  attach  to  the 
corners  of  a  room  tradition  saith  not — stands  Tommy,  com- 
mitting to  memory  these  soothing  lines  : 

"Now  if  I  fight, 
And  scratch,  and  bite, 
In  passions  fall, 
And  bad  names  call, 
Full  well  I  know 
Where  I  shall  go." 

Now  and  again,  as  the  thought  of  the  gloomy  regions 


"GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 


whither  his  iniquities  are  hurrying1  him  comes  home  to  his 
mind,  he  blubbers  suppressedly.  What  amplest  enlarge- 
ment on  the  horrors  of  hell  could  equal  that  portentous 
hint  ?— 

"  Full  well  I  know 
Where  I  shall  go !  " 

Sylvia  to  Bobby :  "  Has  God  been  kind  to  dogs  ?  " 

Bobby  to  Sylvia*  doubtfully  :  "  Ye— es." 

His  round  eyes  are  fixed  on  Toby  the  pug,  basking  in 
the  fire-warmth,  and  chasing  the  lively  flea  through  the 
preserves  of  his  soft  fawn  hind-quarters,  and  his  mind  is 
wandering  from  the  typical  dog  of  the  fable  to  the  actual 
dog  of  real  life. 

"  Is  the  dog's  body  like  yours  ?  " 

Bobby  (thinking  it  safe  to  stick  to  the  affirmative) : 
"  Yes." 

"  The  dog's  body  like  yours?  What  are  you  thinking 
of,  child  ?  Are  you  covered  all  over  with  black  hair,  and 
have  you  got  a  big,  bushy  tail  ?  " 

Bobby  glances  down  uncertainly  at  his  small  person  ; 
but,  seeing  no  caudal  appendage,  shakes  his  head. 

"  Are  the  chicken's  legs  like  yours  ?  " 

Silence. 

Mrs.  Prodgers  is  reduced  to  answering  herself  from  the 
enlightened  page  before  her :  "  No ;  the  chicken  has  very 
thin,  dark  legs." 

Bobby  does  not  appear  sufficiently  impressed  with  grat- 
itude for  the  essential  difference  between  his  own  fat, 
chubby  supporters,  and  those  of  the  benighted  chicken. 
He  is  still  watching  Toby,  who  has  abandoned  the  flea- 
chase,  and  runs  barking  toward  the  door. 

"  Mother,  dear,  there  is  a  ring  at  the  door-bell." 

Prospect  of  emancipation,  and  consequent  elation  of 
tone. 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SATS.  283 

"  Nonsense,  darling ;  attend  to  your  lesson.  Has  the 
pig  a—" 

Whether  the  next  word  was  soul  or  tail,  gizzard  or 
imagination,  transpires  not. 

"  But  there  was,  really ',  mother.  I  hear  Morris  going  to 
open  the  hall-door." 

Mrs.  Prodgers  listens.     "  So  there  is  ! " 

She  jumps  up  hastily,  while  the  "  Peep  of  Day,"  with 
all  its  mingled  treasures  of  piety  and  natural  history,  rolls 
unregarded  on  the  floor,  as  she  stands  before  the  pier-glass, 
tweaking  the  black-ribbon  bow  that  ornaments  her  head, 
and  smoothing  away  the  hair  behind  her  ears.  By  the 
time  the  butler's  solid  footstep  is  heard  nearing  the  room, 
she  is  d  quatre  epingles.  The  door  opens  :  "  Mr.  Scrope." 
My  mouth  opens,  too  ;  my  jaw  falls.  The  stocking  I  am 
knitting  tumbles  into  my  lap. 

"  Charlie  !  "cries  Sylvia,  with  a  little  scream,  half  real, 
half  affected,  of  surprise,  running  forward,  with  her  hands 
clasped. 

Mr.  Scrope  enters,  looking  rather  sheepish  and  some- 
what dishevelled.  There  are  black  marks  under  his  eyes ; 
his  yellow  curls  are  tossed  and  dim  ;  he  looks  unslept  and 
night-travelled. 

"You  did  not  expect  to  see  me,  did  you? "he  says, 
with  a  rather  embarrassed  laugh.  "  Thought  you  had  got 
me  clear  off — that  you  were  rid  of  me  at  last  ?  But  you 
see  I  have  turned  up  again,  like  a  bad  sixpence." 

"  It  is  a  surprise,  of  course,"  answers  Sylvia,  looking 
modestly  down,  and  fondling  Bobby;  "but — but  quite  a 
pleasant  one.  We  were  getting  to  hate  each  other,  as  only 
two  sisters  tete-d-ttte  can ;  were  not  we,  Jemima  ?  " 

His  face  falls. 

"Two  sisters?" 

Nobody  explains :  I,  from  malice,  Sylvia  from  preoccu- 
pation. 


284  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  The  fact  is,"  continues  Scrope,  seeing  that  some  ex- 
planation is  looked  for  from  him,  "  that  I — that  I  thought — 
in  fact,  I  found  that  I  could  get  away  for  a  day  or  two,  so 
I  thought  I  would  run  down  and  look  you  all  up." 

"Why  did  not  you  telegraph?  Why  not  write?  I 
would  have  sent  to  meet  you  ? "  asks  Sylvia,  raising  her 
bashful  eyes.  "  What  scatter-brained  things  men  are  ! " 

He  does  not  heed  her ;  his  eyes  are  wandering  round 
the  room. 

"  Are  you  looking  for  Lenore  ?  "  I  ask,  in  a  matter-of- 
fact  voice.  "  She  is  in  the  library,  writing  letters.  I  will 
tell  her  you  are  here." 

"  Do  not,"  he  cries,  eagerly,  almost  pushing  me  back 
into  my  chair.  "  I  will  not  give  you  the  trouble ;  I  will  go 
and  find  her  myself." 

"  How  very  extraordinary ! "  says  Sylvia,  as  the  door 
closes  upon  him,  smiling  consciously,  and  leaning  her  elbow 
on  the  mantel-piece.  "  What  can  have  brought  him 
back?  I  have  not  the  least  idea;  have  you,  Jemima? 
Poor,  dear  old  boy,  how  pale  he  looked !  I  was  so  glad  you 
were  in  the  room.  By-the-by,  did  I  get  very  red  ?  I  felt 
as  if  I  were  turning  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow." 

"  I  do  not  know ;  I  dare  say." 

"  J3e  sure  you  do  not  leave  me  alone  in  the  room  with 
him"  she  continues,  volubly.  "  I  shall  always  keep  the 
children  with  me ;  there  are  no  better  chaperones  in  the 
world  than  children." 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  285 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

WHAT     THE     ATJTHOK     SAYS. 

As  the  young  man  opens  the  library-door  a  rush  of  cold 
air  meets  him ;  it  is  a  bitter  frost,  black  and  pinching,  yet 
one  of  the  wide  sash  windows  is  thrown  high  up,  and  she 
whom  he  seeks  is  leaning  out  into  the  hard  dull  air.  Her 
elbows  rest  on  the  sill ;  her  dark,  winter  dress  hangs  in 
heavy,  close  folds  about  her,  and  her  bright  blond  head 
leans  languidly  against  the  window-frame.  The  blotting- 
book  is  unopened,  nor  is  any  pen  dipped  in  the  ink.  Le- 
nore's  correspondence  will  keep,  apparently.  Hearing  the 
noise  he  makes  in  entering,  she  raises  herself  quickly,  as 
one  ashamed  of  her  listless  attitude,  and  they  stand  face  to 
face. 

"  You  sent  for  me,"  says  Scrope — abruptly,  without  any 
preliminary  hand-shakings,  or  "  How  do  you  do  ?  " — "  and 
I  am  come." 

She  nods  familiarly  to  him,  and  smiles  a  little.  "  I  knew 
you  would." 

"  I  was  not  in  London  ;  your  letter  followed  me  to  the 
south  of  Ireland — the  instant  I  got  it  I  set  off — I  have 
been  travelling  night  and  day  ever  since.  More  fool  I,  you 
will  say  probably." 

Again  she  smiles,  coldly  and  sweetly. 

"  Since  you  have  said  it,  I  need  not." 

"  And  now  that  I  am  here,"  he  says,  brusquely,  "  what 
do  you  want  with  me  ?  Tell  me  quickly." 

Instead  of  complying,  she  turns  her  head  round  again, 
and  looks  out  at  the  frosty  black  trees,  while  her  fingers 
play  still  tunes  on  the  sill. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  says,  coming  nearer  to  her,  and  breathing 


286  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

quick  and  hard.  "  What  ?  You  will  not  speak  ?  I  know 
you — you  would  keep  me  on  the  rack  a  year,  if  you  could. 
Why  did  you  write  and  say,  c  Come  back.'  It  was  for  no 
good,  I'll  be  sworn,  or  it  would  not  be  you  who  did  it, 
whatever  it  was.  Speak  out,  and  put  me  out  of  my 
misery." 

Then  she  speaks,  but  her  words,  at  first  sight,  seem  to 
have  but  small  connection  with  his  questions. 

"  Have  you  been  in  the  drawing-room  ?  "  she  asks,  while 
the  cold  wind  blows  in  on  her  cheek,  and  puts  no  addition- 
al color  into  it.  "  Have  you  heard  Bobby  say  his  hymn  ? — 
such  a  pretty  one !  Yes  " — (putting  her  finger  on  her  fore- 
head)— "  this  is  it : 

'Now  if  I  fight, 
And  scratch,  and  bite, 
In  passions  fall, 
And  bad  names  call, 
Full  well  I  know 
Where  I  shall  go.' 

Does  not  it  describe  me  exactly  ?  I  laughed  so  immoder- 
ately, that  Sylvia  said  I  was  irreverent,  and  I  had  to  leave 
the  room."  She  throws  herself  into  an  arm-chair,  and  be- 
gins to  laugh  violently. 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  "  he  says,  looking  at 
her  in  half-scared  amazement ;  "  are  you  mad  ?  " 

She  stops  laughing. 

"  Last  time  we  .met,"  she  says,  gravely,  "  at  the  ball, 
don't  you  know  ? — how  I  hate  balls ! — I  have  an  idea  that 
I  fought,  and  scratched,  and  bit;  at  least  I  know  I — 

'  In  passions  fell, 
And  bad  names  called ' — 

I  called  you  a  great  many  ugly  names,  and  you  did  not  like 
it ;  you  were  very  angry.  Well,  I  have  sent  for  you  all 
this  way,  just  to  say  that — that — I  am  sorry." 


WHAT  TEE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  287 

"  Whatf"  cries  the  young  man,  breaking  into  un- 
governable fury,  "  is  this  the  fool's  errand  you  have  sent 
for  me  on? — to  laugh  in  my  face,  and  quote  an  idiotic 
nursery-rhyme  to  me?  By  God,  Lenore,  it  is  too  bad! 
For  the  last  seven — eight  months  I  have  been  your  butt,  a 
football  for  you  to  kick  about ;  but  I  tell  you  I  am  sick  of 
the  part.  I  throw  it  up  !  Find  some  one  else  to  take  it, 
if  you  can." 

He  turns  toward  the  door ;  his  broad  chest  is  heaving ; 
his  strong  hands  are  clinched ;  his  deep-blue  eyes  flash  and 
darken  with  uncontrolled  anger — a  passion  much  more  be- 
coming to  men's  hard  faces  than  soft  and  sawny  love. 

"  Stay  !  "  she  cries,  rising  hastily,  and  putting  her  back 
against  the  door  to  prevent  his  egress ;  "  sit  down,  and, 
whatever  you  say,  speak  lower,  for  I  have  no  special  desire 
to  be  overheard.  I  had  another  reason  for  sending  for  you ; 
but — but — I  am  ashamed  to  tell  it  you." 

"What  is  it?" 

Big,  upstanding,  and  exasperated,  he  does  not  look  a 
man  to  be  trifled  with ;  but,  after  all,  a  man  may  not  knock 
a  woman  down,  so  she  may  shoot  all  her  little  arrows  at 
him  with  a  smile  and  a  quiet  mind,  and  fear  nothing.  Her 
eyes  drop  to  the  carpet  at  her  feet,  and  a  color  burns  like 
fire  on  her  cheeks. 

"  I  sent  for  you  to — to — to — ask  you  to  marry  me." 

At  the  last  words  she  raises  her  eyes,  and  looks  him  in 
the  face.  A  deep  and  utter  silence.  He  has  staggered 
back  against  the  wall,  and  is  staring  at  her  with  wide,  dis- 
believing eyes  of  utter  astonishment. 

"  I  have  no  reason  for  supposing  that  you  wish  to  marry 
me,"  she  says,  collectedly,  though  her  face  is  scarlet.  "  You 
never  told  me  so ;  it  is  only  an  instinct — an  instinct  that 
perhaps  has  led  me  astray."  Still  complete  silence.  "  It 
is  not  leap-year,  is  it?"  she  says,  with  a  forced  laugh. 


288  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  No !  "Well,  then,  I  have  no  excuse — none,  except  that  I 
wished  it ;  and  you  know,  from  a  child,  I  have  always  asked 
for  what  I  wished ;  and  always — no,  not  always — not  al- 
ways "  (stifling  a  sigh),  "  but  generally  I  have  got  it." 

"  And — and  Le  Mesurier  ?  "  says  Scrope,  at  last,  in  a 
rough  and  altered  voice,  trying  to  stand  steadily  on  his 
feet,  while  his  knees  shake  under  him,  and  the  room  whirls 
round  him. 

"  What  about  him  ?  "  she  cries,  sharply.  "  Why  do 
you  drag  him  in?  If  it  was  anybody 's  part  to  mention 
him,  it  was  mine.  You  will  hear  no  more  of  him ;  he  is 
gone — it  is  all  off,  you  know  that ;  it  was  all  off  before  you 
left — only,  I  suppose,  it  gives  you  pleasure  to  hear  it 
again." 

"  And  you  f  "  says  the  young  man,  staring  into  her 
calm  face,  while  he  stammers  and  stutters  ;  "  you — you  do 
not  care ;  you — you  are  not  cut  up  about  it  ?  " 

She  turns  her  face  suddenly  aside,  but  only  for  an  in- 
stant: in  a  moment  she  is  looking  at  him  again — looking 
at  him,  and  smiling. 

"  Cut  up  !  "  she  says,  laughing.  "  What  an  expression ! 
It  is  only  men  that  are  cut  up!  Do  I  look  very  down- 
hearted ?  Do  you  see  any  willow  in  my  hand  ?  No,  no  ! 
I  am  not  the  sort  of  person  that  am  ever  cut  up  much 
about  any  thing." 

Still  he  looks  at  her  with  a  bewildered  face,  paled  and 
quivering,  as  one  but  freshly  waked  from  a  heavenly  dream, 
that  knows  not  whether  he  yet  sleeps  or  wakes ;  afraid  to 
grasp  within  his  hand  the  immense  and  utter  bliss  that  her 
words  seem  to  set  within  his  reach,  lest  it  should  melt  away 
like  fairy  gold.  His  emotion  does  not  communicate  itself 
to  her ;  rather,  it  makes  her  more  composed. 

"  Well,"  she  says,  with  a  pretty,  chilly,-  mocking  smile, 
"  you  have  not  yet  answered  me.  How  cruel  to  keep  me 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  289 

in  suspense !  Does  it  require  so  much  time  to  decide  ? 
The  matter  lies  in  a  nutshell.  Do  you  wish  to  marry  me, 
or  do  you  not  ?  " 

"  Do  I  wish  to  go  to  heaven  ?  Did  Dives  in  hell  wish 
for  that  cup  of  cold  water  ?  "  cries  the  young  man,  passion- 
ately, waking  with  a  leap  out  of  his  trance,  and  flinging 
his  happy  arms  around  her. 

She  shudders,  and  pulls  herself  away. 

"  Bah !  "  she  says,  coldly,  retreating  several  paces  from 
him  ;  "  do  not  let  us  have  any  flowers  of  rhetoric ;  and  it  is 
too  early  yet  to  be  affectionate.  If  Dives  had  got  his  cup 
of  cold  water  he  would  have  taken  it  quietly,  like  a  gentle- 
man, and  not  snatched  it." 

"  You  were  not  in  earnest  then?"  cries  the  young  man, 
fiercely,  with  a  revulsion  of  feeling  as  bitter  as  his  former 
triumph  had  been  heavenly  sweet.  "  I  was  a  fool  to  be 
taken  in !  It  was  only  an  unfeeling,  unwomanly  joke. 
Will  you  be  kind  enough"  (coming  close  to  her,  and 
breathing  heavily)  "  to  tell  me  where  the  wit  is — where 
the  point  ? — for,  upon  my  soul,  I  do  not  see  it." 

"  There  is  no  wit — there  is  no  point,"  she  answers,  with 
perfect  gravity  and  unflinching  seriousness.  "  What  wit 
or  point  need  there  be  in  naked  truth  ?  As  I  stand  here  " 
(clasping  her  hands,  and  looking  full  into  the  fierce  beauty 
of  his  face),  "I  am  in  earnest.  I  wish  you  to  marry  me. 
I  asJc  you  !  It  is  unmaidenly — immodest  of  me — I  know 
that,  and  so  do  you,  but — I  ask  you  !  " 

"  God  above ! "  he  says,  in  a  whisper  of  intense  excite- 
ment, "  is  it  possible,  Lenore  ?  "  (catching  her  roughly  by 
the  hand).  "  Turn  your  face  to  the  light ;  let  me  see  your 
eyes — I  do  not  believe  your  words  ;  it  seems  so  unnatural 
to  hear  any  kind  ones  from  your  lips.  God!  when  I 
think  that  it  is  less  than  a  week  ago  that  I  saw  you  stand- 
ing here  together,  and  you  giving  him  such  soft,  kind  looks, 
13 


290  "GOOD-BYE^   SWEETHEART!" 

to  get  one  of  which  I  would  have  sacrificed  twenty  years 
of  my  life,  and  thought  it  a  cheap  bargain — you,  who 
never  threw  me  any  thing  but  mocks,  and  jeers,  and  ugly 
names — I  cannot  believe  it.  Say  what  you  will  to  me — 
swear  it,  asseverate  it — I  cannot,  I  cannot ! " 

She  does  not  answer :  for  the  moment,  I  think,  she  finds 
speech  difficult;  she  stands  rigidly  still,  her  face  turned 
toward  the  bitter  winter  landscape,  with  lips  tightly  com- 
pressed, as  one  resolved  not  to  weep. 

"  When  I  think,"  continues  the  young  man,  vehemently, 
"  of  how  you  smiled — of  how  happy  you  looked  if  he  only 
touched  in  passing  the  border  of  your  gown,  less  than  a 
week  ago — less  than  a  week  ago — can  I  believe  that  such 
love  has  all  gone  ?  Gone  f  Where  can  it  have  gone  to  ? 
Tell  me  that !  Does  love  disappear  like  a  morning  mist  ?  " 

"  Hush ! "  she  says,  hoarsely,  putting  her  fingers  in  her 
ears.  "  How  many  times  must  I  tell  you  not  to  drag  him 
in  ?  If  I  ever  cared  for  him  "  (she  stops  for  a  second,  un- 
able to  manage  her  voice),  "if  I  ever  cared  for  him,  that 
was  between  him  and  me ;  you  had  no  concern  in  it ;  but 
now  it  is  all  over,  dead /  and,  when  things  are  dead,  what 
is  there  to  do  but  to  bury  and  forget  them  ?  Take  me  or 
leave  me,  as  you  choose,  that  is  your  business — I  know 
which  you  would  do  if  you  were  wise — but,  for  God's  sake, 
leave  that  old  story  alone !  It  is  my  old  story,  not  yours, 
and  I — I  have  a  short  memory  "  (smiling  faintly) ;  "  I  am 
fast  forgetting  it." 

"But  are  3rou,"  he  cries,  with  a  painful  skepticism, 
hardly  to  be  wondered  at,  "  are  you  sure  of  that  ?  Are 
you  sure  that,  if  you  saw  him  coming  in  now,  this  minute, 
at  that  door,  you  would  not  run  to  him,  as  you  ran  out  into 
the  cold  to  meet  him  that  first  night  he  came,  and  leave 
me  to  cut  the  brilliant  figure  I  have  always  done,  ever  since 
the  unlucky  day  at  Guingamp,  where  I  first  saw  you  ?  " 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  291 

At  his  words  she  shivers  again,  and  shrinks,  as  if  touched 
by  a  hot  iron. 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  "  she  cries,  passion- 
ately. "  Why  do  you  persist  in  indulging  in  these  idiotic 
suppositions  ?  He  will  not  come  back,  I  tell  you.  Do 
dead  people  ever  push  up  their  coffin-lid,  and  come  walk- 
ing back  again  ?  If  they  do,  I  never  saw  them.  Well, 
they  are  more  likely  to  come  back  than  he  is — much  more 
likely.  He  is  done  with "  (spreading  out  her  hands) ; 
"  so,  for  God's  sake,  try  and  help  me  to  forget  that  there 
ever  was  such  a  person,  instead  of  always  throwing  him 
in  my  teeth." 

At  the  last  words  she  catches  her  breath  sobbingly,  but 
resolutely  forces  back  the  tears  that  come  crowding  thickly 
under  her  hot  lids.  He  stares  at  her  stupidly  still. 

"  He  only  liked  me  when  I  was  on  my  good  behavior," 
she  continues,  with  a  hard,  wan  smile,  "  and  you  know  how 
seldom  that  is.  I  had  an  idea  that  you  would  take  me 
whether  I  behaved  well  or  ill,  or  not  at  all ;  and  so — and 
so — I  sent  for  you." 

She  stretches  out  her  hand  to  him,  smiling  friendlily ; 
and  he,  catching  it  between  both  his  own  broad  ones,  cov- 
ers it  with  silent  kisses,  then,  after  a  while,  speaks  slowly 
and  diffidently,  blushing  like  a  school-girl : 

"And  you — you  can  tolerate  the  idea  of  being  my 
wife  ?  You— like  me  a  little  ?  " 

"  Like  you  ?  "  she  says,  carelessly,  with  a  forced  laugh. 
"  Of  course  I  do.  What  a  question  !  Have  not  I  asked 
you  to  marry  me  ?  What  better  proof  could  I  give  ? 
Why  should  I  not  like  you  ?  You  are  young,  good-looking, 
and  a  'parti.  Of  course,  I  like  you." 

He  does  not  look  very  much  satisfied  with  this  expres- 
sion of  faith. 

"  You  do  not  believe  me  ?  "  she  says,  interrogatively. 


292  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  Well,  I  have  already  given  you  one  proof ;  I  will  give  you 
another.  I  have  asked  you  to  marry  me.  I  now  ask  you  to 
marry  me  soon.  I'm  aware  "  (laughing)  "  that  it  is  not  usual 
for  such  a  proposition  to  come  from  the  lady ;  but,  as  I  have 
begun  by  taking  the  initiative,  I  suppose  I  must  go  on." 

The  look  of  wild,  incredulous  astonishment  intensifies 
on  his  face  and  in  his  bold,  bright  eyes.  Are  his  ears 
faithful  carriers  of  the  words  intrusted  to  them,  or  does  his 
brain  interpret  them  untruly  ? 

"  Lenore,"  he  says,  impetuously,  throwing  himself  on 
his  knees  beside  her,  as  she  sits  leaning  back  in  an  arm- 
chair, "  forgive  me  for  being  such  a  fool,  such  an  unman- 
nerly brute,  as  to  disbelieve  what  you  say  to  me ;  but  are 
you  sure — I  will  not  be  angry  if  it  is  so — upon  my  soul,  I 
will  try  not  to  be — but  are  you  sure  that  it  is  not  a  joJce  ? 
— that  you  have  not  made  me  the  subject  of  a  bet,  that 
this  is  not  some  trap  that  you  are  drawing  me  into  ?  Con- 
fess— confess  that  it  looks  like  it.  Five  days  ago,  you  told 
me  that  the  only  boon  you  had  to  ask  of  me  was  that  you 
might  never  see  my  face  again — and,  by  Heaven,  if  ever 
any  woman  looked  as  if  she  meant  what  she  said,  you  did 
then — and  now — now — did  I  hear  aright  ?  I  am  afraid  to 
think  so — you  ask  me  to  marry  you  soon  f  " 

She  hangs  her  head  a  little,  as  if  ashamed,  but  says 
nothing. 

"Is  it  any  wonder,"  he  continues,  excitedly,  "that, 
when  I  have  been  crying  for  the  moon  for  the  last  six 
months,  and  hating  my  life  and  myself,  and  even  all  my 
own  people,  because  I  could  not  get  it,  that,  when  it  falls 
down  on  a  sudden  at  my  feet,  I  should  wish  to  know  what 
brought  it  there  ?  Is  it  any  wonder  that  I  should  wish  to 
see  the  dessous  des  cartes  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  dessous"  she  says,  naively.  "  What  can 
I  say  ?  I  am  sick  of  asseverating !  As  I  believe  in  God, 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  293 

and  am  unutterably  afraid  of  Him  "  (looking  solemnly  up, 
and  shuddering),  "I  am  speaking  truth !  What  reason  can 
I  give  ?  I  have  none.  I  am  tired  of  being  Lenore  Her- 
rick,  that  is  all.  It  is  a  name  that  has  brought  me  no 
luck ;  perhaps  Lenore  Scrope  will  bring  me  better." 

"  God  grant  that  it  may ! "  he  says,  earnestly,  drawing 
her  toward  him,  into  his  arms  and  to  his  broad  breast. 
"  Sweet,  give  me  one  kiss,  and  I  shall  believe  you." 

So  she  gives  him  one  kiss.  Only  five  days  ago  !  Only 
five  days  ago ! 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

WHAT     JEMIMA     SATS. 

ME.  SCEOPE  returns  to  the  drawing-room,  as  he  left  it, 
alone.  As  he  enters,  we  both  look  up  and  smile,  as  one 
does  smile  with  vague  complacency  at  the  sight  of  any 
thing  young  and  specially  comely. 

"  Did  you  find  her  ?  "  I  ask,  as  I  kneel  before  the  fire, 
giving  it  a  vigorous  and  searching  poke,  for  his  benefit. 

"Yes." 

He  says  merely  this — almost  the  shortest  of  all  mono- 
syllables ;  but  there  is  something  in  the  tone  in  which  he 
says  it  that  makes  me  pause,  poker  in  hand,  from  my  noisy 
toil,  to  examine  him  more  narrowly. 

"  You  have  been  quarrelling  as  usual,  I  suppose  ?  "  I 
say,  with  a  wily  attempt  to  come  at  the  matter  of  their 
conversation  without  seeming  too  indecently  curious. 

"  Lenore  always  quarrels  with  everybody,"  says  Sylvia, 
patting  the  pug's  fat  stomach,  as  he  lies  on  his  back,  with 
his  eyes  rolling  awfully  and  a  bit  of  rosy  tongue  showing 
between  his  black  lips,  in  a  state  of  Sybaritic  enjoyment  on 


294  "GOOIT-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 


her  lap.  "  I  tell  her  it  is  her  way  of  flirting.  She  always 
maintains  that  she  cannot  flirt — does  not  know  how ;  but 
of  course  that  is  nonsense.  I  suppose  we  can  all  do  a  little 
in  that  way,  if  we  try  ?  " — holding  her  smooth  head  rather 
on  one  side,  and  looking  arch. 

"  Has  she  been  saying  any  thing  unusually  exasper- 
ating ? "  I  ask,  as,  under  my  successful  labors,  the  frosty 
fire  spires  and  races  upward.  "  Never  mind  if  she  has ; 
she  is  not  in  very  good  tune  just  now,  poor  soul,  and  one 
can  hardly  wonder  at  it." 

While  he  speaks,  Mr.  Scrope  has  been  stalking  up  and 
down  in  a  fidgety  way,  making  the  boards  creak.  At  my 
words  he  stops,  and  says  abruptly  : 

"Why?" 

"  Have  not  you  heard  ?  Oh,  of  course  not !  Stupid  of 
me !  She  would  not  be  likely  to  mention  it  herself — it  is 
not  a  very  pleasant  subject  to  talk  about — but  her  engage- 
ment is  all  off,  and  she  is  naturally  rather  low  about  it." 

"  She  is  not  in  the  least  low ;  I  never  saw  her  in  better 
spirits  in  my  life,"  says  Scrope,  with  a  brusqueness  that 
amounts  to  incivility ;  and,  having  delivered  himself  of  this 
speech, he  marches  off  to  the  window  and  turns  his  back  to  us. 

"  It  must  be  your  coming,  then,  that  has  cheered  her," 
says  Sylvia,  laughing  lackadaisically,  "  and  indeed  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  at  the  risk  of  making  you  atrociously  con- 
ceited, I  must  say  1 '  dortt  wonder  at  it.  It  is  a  shockingly 
fast  sentiment,  I  suppose,  but  there  is  something  in  the 
timbre  of  a  man's  voice  that  quite  invigorates  me ;  I  sup- 
pose it  is  always  having  been  so  much  used  to  men's  soci- 
ety. I  get  on  with  them  so  much  better  than  with  women ; 
/understand  them,  and  they  understand  we." 

"  Have  you  had  any  talk  with  her  ?  "  I  ask,  rising  pre- 
cipitately, and  following  him  to  the  embrasure  of  the  win- 
dow, perfectly  heedless  of  the  fact  that  my  sister  is  com- 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  295 

fortably  mounted  on  her. pet  hobby — self,  and  is  cantering 
complacently  away  on  him.  "  Did  she  say  any  thing  to 
you?" 

"  Listen ! "  he  says,  putting  a  hand  on  each  of  my  shoul- 
ders, quite  unconscious  of  the  familiarity  of  the  action — 
and  indeed  they  might  be  posts  for  all  he  knows  about 
them — and  looking  me  rudely  and  triumphantly  in  the  face. 
"  She  has  been  saying  this  to  me ,  '  I  will  marry  you  as 
soon  as  you  like  ! ' ' 

"  WHAT  !!!!!!"  Six  marks  of  admiration  but  poorly 
render  the  expression  I  throw  into  this  innocent  monosyl- 
lable. I  feel  my  face  becoming  a  series  of  round  Os — as- 
tonishment stretching  and  opening  every  feature  beyond 
its  natural  destiny. 

"  Why  do  you  keep  staring  at  me  ? "  says  the  young 
man,  petulantly,  giving  me  a  little  shake ;  "  why  do  you 
stand  with  your  mouth  wide  open  ?  Why  should  not  I 
marry  ?  What  is  there  to  prevent  me  ?  Does  not  every- 
body do  it  ?  What  is  there  so  very  surprising  in  it  ?  " 

Still  I  maintain  an  absolute  silence ;  his  hands  have 
dropped  from  my  shoulders,  but  I  still  stand  before  him, 
like  a  block  of  stupid  stone.  Neither  does  Sylvia  speak ; 
she  is  affecting  to  blow  her  nose,  and  has  covered  the  nose 
part  of  her  face  with  her  pocket-handkerchief;  what  yet 
remains  is  excessively  red.  For  once  her  hobby-horse  has 
given  her  a  nasty  fall. 

"  Why  do  you  stare  at  me  like  a  wild  beast  ? "  cries 
Scrope,  angrily.  "  Is  this  the  way  you  always  take  a  piece 
of  news  ?  Pleasant  for  the  person  who  tells  you,  if  it  is. 
If  I  had  told  you  that  she  had  just  fallen  down  dead  in  the 
next  room,  you  could  not  look  at  me  with  greater  dismay." 

I  cannot  contradict  it.  Sputtering  and  breathless,  I 
still  face  him,  trying  hard  to  speak ;  but,  in  all  the  wide 
range  of  good,  noble,  and  useful  words  that  the  English 


296  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

tongue  affords,  I  can  find  not  one  that  suits  the  present 
crisis. 

"  Why  don't  you  say  something  f  "  says  the  young 
man,  with  cheeks  on  fire  and  lightning  eye.  "  The  most 
disagreeable  sentence  you  could  invent  would  be  better 
than  this.  Oh,  come !  I  cannot  stand  it  any  longer — to  be 
stared  at  by  two  perfectly  silent  women  with  their  mouths 
open ;  it  would  make  " — laughing  fiercely — "  it  wrould 
make  the  bravest  man  in  Europe  run  like  a  hare !  " 

lie  turns  quickly  to  the  door  as  he  speaks.  Then  I  find 
my  tongue ;  its  hinges  are  not  well  oiled,  and  it  does  not 
run  smoothly,  but  it  goes  somehow.  I  catch  hold  of  his 
arm  or  his  coat-tail — I  am  not  quite  sure  which — in  my  ex- 
citement. 

"  Stop,  stop  ! "  I  cry,  incoherently  ;  "  don't  be  cross  !  I 
mean  to  say  something — I  am  going  to  say  something — 
but — but — you  take  my  breath  away  !  It  is  so  sudden — 
eo  unnaturally  sudden  !  " 

"  Unnaturally  f  "  repeats  he,  tartly,  the  painful  con- 
sciousness that  I  have  hit  upon  the  joints  of  his  harness 
making  him  defend  the  weak  part  with  all  the  greater  acri- 
mony. "  Why  unnaturally,  pray  ?  If  it  does  not  seem 
too  sudden  to  her  or  to  me,  I  do  not  see  why  it  need  ap- 
pear so  to  any  one  else." 

"  But — but — are  you  sure  you  are  not  mistaken  ?  "  I 
say,  disbelievingly,  mindful  of  the  tear-swollen,  desperate 
face  I  had  seen  lying  among  its  tossed  hair  on  my  sister's 
bedroom-floor.  "  Are  you  quite  sure  she  said  those  words  ? 
She  is  an  odd  girl — Lenore — very  odd,  and  sometimes  she 
has  a  random  way  of  talking ;  I  do  not  think  she  quite 
knows  always  what  she  is  saying." 

"  Thank  you,"  replies  he,  bowing  formally,  though  his 
face  flames.  "  You  are,  if  not  polite,  at  least  candid.  I 
understand.  A  wroman  must  be  slightly  deranged  to  con- 
sent to  be  my  wife." 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SATS.  297 

My  wits  are  still  too  far  out  wool-gathering  for  me  to 
be  able  to  summon  them  back  to  compose  some  civil  ex- 
planation and  apology. 

"  You  disbelieve  me  still  ?  "  cries  my  future  brother-in- 
law,  greatly  exasperated  by  my  silence.  "  All  right !  do 
— it  does  me  no  harm  ;  but,  if  it  should  happen  to  strike 
you  at  any  time  that  I  may,  by  accident,  be  speaking  truth, 
you  have  only  to  send  for  Lenore,  and  ask  her." 

"  Poor  dear  Lenore !  "  says  Sylvia,  speaking  for  the  first 
time,  and  smiling  sweetly.  "  She  has  not  been  long  in 
consoling  herself,  has  she  ?  I  am  quite  glad." 

Mrs.  Prodgers  has  finished  blowing  her  nose,  and  her 
face  has  laid  aside  its  transient  redness ;  but  she  now  holds 
her  head  quite  straight,  nor  does  she  looks  at  all  arch. 

"  You  know,  Jemima,  if  you  remember,  you  laughed  at 
me — but  I  always  maintained  that  Paul  Le  Mesurier  did 
not  care  two  straws  about  her.  I  am  sure  I  am  the  last 
person  to  pretend  to  unusual  clearsightedness,  but  one  has 
one's  instincts  !  " 

"  It  is  sudden,  of  course ! "  bursts  out  Scrope,  boyishly, 
not  paying  any  attention  to  my  sister,  but  looking  straight 
and  defiantly  at  me.  "  What  is  the  good  of  telling  me 
that  ?  Etbw  can  I  help  it  ?  Tell  me  that  January  is  colder 
than  July — I  know  it  is ;  but  it  is  not  my  fait.  If  I  had 
had  my  way,  it  would  not  have  been  sudden — it  would  have 
happened  full  six  months  ago.  No  one  ought  to  know  that 
better  than  you." 

"  Ought  I  ?  "  say  I,  vaguely.  "  I  dare  say— but  to  tell 
you  the  truth — so  many  incoherences  about  Lenore — her 
eyes,  her  ankles,  and  her  inhumanities — have  been  poured 
into  my  ears  that  I  get  them  muddled  together.  I  cannot, 
at  a  moment's  notice,  assign  to  each  lover  his  own  several 
Jeremiad." 

"  You  are  spiteful,"  replies  the  young  fellow,  laughing 


298  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

a  little,  but  looking  offended.  "  If  I  had  known  how  little 
you  were  listening  to  me,  I  would  not  have  talked  to  you 
about  her." 

"  Poorest,  dearest  Lenore ! "  repeats  Sylvia,  smiling  a 
little  patronizingly.  "  Quite  the  dearest  thing  in  the  world, 
and,  mercifully  for  her,  incapable  of  fretting  much  about 
any  thing  or  anybody.  What  a  gift! — if  she  could  but 
give  one  the  receipt ! "  (sighing  and  pensively  passing 
through  her  fingers  the  beads  of  a  great  jet  rope  that  she 
wears  round  her  neck.) 

"  Jemima,"  says  Scrope,  impulsively,  putting  his  hand 
again  fraternally  on  my  shoulder,  "  I  do  not  suppose  that 
they  will  do  me  any  good — not  a  barley-corn — but  still  I 
have  a  morbid  desire  for  your  good  wishes ;  they  will  be 
tardy  and  lugubrious,  I  am  aware,  but,  such  as  they  are, 
give  them  me.  If  JT"  (reproachfully)  "  had  heard  that  you 
were  going  to  be  married,  I  should  not  have  been  so  slow 
or  so  dismal  in  offering  mine." 

"  That  is  a  very  safe  position,"  reply  I,  dryly.  "  If  you 
had  seen  me  flying  toward  the  moon,  you  would  have  com- 
plimented me  on  the  ease  and  grace  with  which  I  flapped 
my  wings.  I  do  wish  you  good  luck — there  ! — but  whether 
you  will  get  it  or  not  is  another  matter." 

"  But — but — you — think  that  it  will  be  ?  "  says  Scrope, 
with  his  whole  eager  heart  in  his  voice.  "  Now  that  you 
have  shut  your  mouth,  and  that  your  eyes  no  longer  look 
as  if  they  were  falling  out  of  your  head,  and  that  you  can 
talk  rationally — you  believe  it  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  honor,  I  cannot  say,"  reply  I,  laughing  un- 
comfortably. "  Lenore,  as  Sylvia  truly  observed  just  now, 
is  quite  the  dearest  thing  in  the  world ;  but  sometimes  she 
goes  round  and  round,  like  the  sails  of  a  wind-mill.  I  have 
a  good  mind  to  go  and  ask  her  myself." 

So  I  go. 


WHAT  JZMIMA  SAYS.  299 

CHAPTER  XV. 

WHAT     JEMIMA     SAYS. 

UP  and  down,  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  with  her 
hands  behind  her  back,  I  find  her  marching  in  the  ordered 
solitude  of  ner  own  room,  as  I  had  expected. 

"  Good  Heavens  !  "  say  I,  entering,  with  my  shoulders 
raised  nearly  to  my  ears,  and  my  hands  spread  out. 

She  stops  in  her  persevering  trudge,  looks  me  coolly 
over,  and  says — 

"Apres?" 

I  throw  my  eyes  up  to  the  ceiling,  and  shake  my  head 
several  times,  but  words  utter  I  none. 

"  You  have  heard,  I  suppose,"  she  says,  quietly.  "  I 
see  he  is  running  all  over  the  house  button-holing  every- 
body, as  the  Ancient  Mariner  did  the  Wedding  Guest.  I 
hope  he  has  told  Norris,  and  William,  and  Frederick — it 
would  be  a  sad  oversight  if  he  has  not." 

"  It  is  true,  then  ?  "  I  say,  gasping.  "  When  he  told 
me,  I  would  not  believe  it — I  said  so — I  said  I  would  ask 
you  myself." 

"  You  might  have  saved  yourself  the  trouble  of  the 
journey  up-stairs,"  replies  she,  calmly,  "  but,  as  you  are 
not c  fat  and  scant  of  breath,'  like  Hamlet,  Prince  of  Den- 
mark, I  suppose  it  does  not  matter  much." 

"  Good  Heavens  !  "  say  I,  for  the  second  time. 

"  Try  a  new  ejaculation,"  suggests  my  sister,  smiling ; 
"  I  am  tired  of  that  one." 

"  And — and — and  your  reason  ?  " 

"Reason?"  repeats  she,  laughing  rather  harshly. 
"  What  extraordinary  questions  you  do  ask !  Is  not  it 
on  the  surface  ?  I  am  in  love,  to  be  sure — deeply  in  love." 


300  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

I  am  on  the  verge  of  being  delivered  of  a  third  "  Good 
Heavens  ! "  but,  recollecting  myself,  suppress  it. 

"If  you  remember,  you  did  not  approve  of  my  first 
choice,"  says  Lenore,  with  a  bitter  smile ;  "  are  you  any 
better  pleased  with  my  second  ?  " 

"  Much  better,"  I  answer,  emphatically ;  "  far  better — 
only  it  is  horribly  and  indecently  sudden — that  is  all !  " 

Silence. 

"  As  for  the  other,"  I  continue,  "  you  are  right.  I 
never  could  understand  what  you  saw  in  him :  a  long  nose, 
a  yard  of  scarlet  beard,  and  a  sulky  temper,  seemed  to  me 
the  whole  stock-in-trade." 

For  one  second  her  eyes  flash  with  a  furious  pain,  then 
grow  quiet. 

"  Exactly,"  she  says,  composedly.  "  Now,  in  the  case 
of  the  present  nose,  there  is  nothing  to  be  desired,  is  there  ? 
— nice  and  short,  and  runs  straight  down  the  middle  of  his 
face,  without  deviating  a  hair's-breadth  to  right  or  left ; 
such  nice,  curls,  too,  all  over  his  head,  as  if  they  were 
put  in  curl-papers  every  night — and  such  dear  little 
teeth  ! " 

"  For  shame  !  "  cry  I,  indignantly  ;  "  you  are  describ- 
ing a  doll.  Lenore,  Lenore !  what  are  you  made  of  ? 
Beauty  and  love  are  thrown  away  upon  you,  and  you  have 
a  perverted  taste  for  ugliness  and  indifference." 

She  shrugs  her  shoulders. 

"  One  may  abuse  one's  own  property,  I  suppose  ?  If 
you  remember,  he  is  my  doll  now — curls,  and  dear  little 
teeth,  and  all ! " 

I  turn  away,  pained  and  disgusted. 

"  Stay,"  she  says,  laying  her  hand  on  mine ;  "  do  not 
be  cross.  I  am  serious — look  at  me !  I  am  sure  I  do  not 
feel  as  if  there  were  a  joke  to  be  got  out  of  the  whole  of 
me." 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.'  801 

I  look  at  her,  as  she  tells  me — look  with  uncomfortable 
misgivings  at  the  bright  beauty  that  has  prospered  her  so 
little :  her  cheeks  are  crimson,  and  the  hand  which  holds 
mine  burns,  burns. 

"  Attend  to  me,"  she  says,  imploringly.  "  I  am  very 
much  in  earnest.  I  have  done  better  this  time,  have  not 
I  ?  I  have  been  more  wise  at  last." 

I  shake  my  head. 

"  How  can  I  say  ?  " 

"  This  one  is  much  more  suitable  to  me,  is  not  he  ?  I 
— I "  (laughing  feverishly) — "  I  begin  to  think  that  I  did 
not  care  realty  for  the  other  so  much  after  all ;  it  was  only 
fancy — it  was  only  my  perversity.  I  wanted  to  get  him 
because  I  thought  nobody  else  could.  I — I  was  not  really 
fond  of  him,  was  I  ?  " 

She  looks  with  a  sort  of  wild  wistfulness  into  my  face 
for  confirmation  of  her  words,  but  I  do  not  think  she  finds 
any. 

"He  is  much  more  suitable  to  me,"  she  repeats, 
vaguely,  as  if  trying  to  convince  herself  by  iteration ; 
"  much  more  in  every  respect.  So  much  better-looking." 

"  Immeasurably,"  say  I,  emphatically ;  not  that  I  see 
what  that  has  got  to  say  to  it." 

"  And  better  off,"  she  continues,  still  holding  and  un- 
consciously pressing  my  hand  with  her  hot,  dry  fingers. 
"  We  should  have  been  miserably  poor,  Paul  and  I — miser- 
ably ;  and  I  hate  poverty;  I  hate  trying  to  make  both 
ends  meet.  They  will  meet  now  and  lap  over,  without 
any  difficulty,  will  not  they  ?  " 

"  I  imagine  so." 

"  And  in  age,  too,"  she  goes  on,  eagerly,  "  we  are  far 
better  fitted ;  is  it  not  so  ?  Paul  was  old — older  than  his 
age  even — old  in  himself." 

"  He  might  well  have  been  your  father,"  I  say,  laugh 


302  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

ing  vindictively,  "  except  that  no  one  would  have  accused 
you  of  emanating  from  so  hard-featured  a  stock." 

"  No,"  she  says,  not  in  the  least  attending  to  my  sar- 
casm, "  of  course  not ;  altogether,  you  see,"  smiling  me- 
chanically— "  altogether,  you  see,  Jemima,  it  is  all  for  the 
best.  I  am  nearly  quite  convinced  of  it  now,  and,  of 
course,  I  shall  grow  more  and  more  convinced  every  day, 
shall  not  I  ?  "  looking  at  me  with  imploring  inquiry. 

I  make  no  response,  and  we  both  lapse  into  silence — a 
silence  spent  by  Lenore  in  wandering  aimlessly  about,  pull- 
ing the  blinds  up  and  down,  disarranging  the  few  wintry 
flowers  in  the  vase  on  the  toilet-table,  altering  the  furni- 
ture. At  last  she  speaks  with  sudden  abruptness : 

"  It  is  to  be  soon — very  soon ! " 

"  He  is  wise  there,  I  think,"  I  answer,  following  her 
doubtfully  about  with  my  eyes.  "  Poor  boy,  he  has  not 
studied  you  for  the  last  six  months  to  no  purpose;  he 
knows  what  a  weathercock  you  are,  and  is  bent  on  making 
sure  of  you  while  you  are  in  the  vein.  Who  can  tell  when 
the  wind  may  change  ?  " 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  she  says,  quickly,  "  it  was  not  his 
idea  at  all ;  it  was  my  suggestion.  I  suppose  "  (laughing 
with  the  same  forced  and  hollow  sound  that  had  before 
pained  me)  "  I  suppose  it  is  the  first  instance  on  record  of 
such  a  proposition  emanating  from  the  lady,  but  it  was. 
Yes,  you  may  look  as  if  you  were  going  to  eat  me — I  can- 
not help  that — it  was  !  " 

"  Good  Heavens  !  "  repeat  I,  devoutly,  lapsing  uninten- 
tionally, for  the  third  time,  into  my  favorite  ejaculation. 

"  Yes,  soon — very  soon !  "  she  says,  half  to  herself, 
pulling  her  rings  on  and  off,  lacing  her  fingers  together  and 
then  again  unlacing  them ;  "  and  we  will  have  a  very 
smart  wedding — very !  I  hate  sneaking  to  church  with 
only  the  clerk  and  the  beadle,  as  if  one  were  ashamed  of 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  303 

one's  self.  We  will  have  all  the  neighbors,  and  men  down 
from  Gunter's,  and  a  ball." 

I  stare  distrustfully  at  her :  her  eyes  are  sparkling  like 
diamonds  at  night,  the  splendid  carnation  that  fever  gives 
paints  her  cheeks. 

"  And  you  will  have  it  put  in  all  the  papers,"  she  says, 
laughing  restlessly ;  "  all  of  them — you  must  not  forget — 
a  fine,  long,  flourishing  paragraph— do  you  mind  ? — in  all 
of  them." 

"  What  an  extraordinary  thing  to  give  a  thought  to  ! " 
I  say,  suspiciously.  "  If  you  had  two  columns  of  the 
Times  devoted  to  you,  how  much  good  would  it  do  you  ?  " 

"  Good?  Oh,  none  at  all ;  but  it  is  amusing.  Flowers 
of  newspaper  eloquence  are  always  entertaining,  don't  you 
know?  And  one  likes  one's  friends — one's  friends  at  a 
distance — to  know  what  is  happening  to  one." 

A  light  begins  to  break  upon  me,  but  it  is  such  an  un- 
pleasant one  that  for  the  moment  I  ask  no  more  questions. 
A  pause.  There  are  so  many  things — true,  yet  eminently 
disagreeable — to  be  said,  that  I  hesitate  which  to  begin 
upon.  Lenore  presently  saves  me  the  trouble. 

"  If — if — if  he  were  to  see  me  now,"  she  says,  sitting 
down  at  my  feet,  and  smiling  excitedly  up  at  me,  "  he 
could  not  think  I  was  pining  much  for  him,  could  he  ?  " 

The  unpleasant  light  grows  clearer. 

"  When  he  sees  the  account  of  my  wedding  in  the  pa- 
pers— so  soon — so  immediately — such  a  brilliant  marriage, 
too ;  I  am  so  glad  it  is  a  good  one — he  will  realize " 
(laughing  ironically)  "  how  irreparable  an  injury  his  deser- 
tion has  inflicted  on  me,  will  not  he  ?  " 

"  Is  it  possible  f  "  says  I,  with  shocked  emphasis.  "  I 
suspected  it  when  you  began  to  talk  to  me ;  I  am  sure  of 
it  now.  Lenore !  Lenore !  you  are  going  to  be  madder 
than  all  Bedlam  and  Hanwell  together ! " 


804  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

"  I  am — am  I  ?  "  speaking  with  listless  inattention  to 
my  words,  and  still  pursuing  her  own  thoughts. 

"  Marrying  one  man  to  pique  another  always  seemed  to 
me  the  most  thorough  'pulling  your  nose  to  vex  your 
face,' "  I  continue,  in  great  heat. 

No  remark,  no  comment  on  my  homely  illustration. 

"  Suppose  he  does  hear  of  your  marriage ;  suppose  he 
does  read  every  paragraph  in  all  the  papers  about  it ;  sup- 
pose he  reads  that  you  had  twelve  bridesmaids,  and  that 
you  went  off  in  a  coach-and-six,  how  much  the  worse  will 
he  be  or  how  much  the  better  you  ?  " 

Still  no  answer ;  but  she  listens. 

"  He  will  feel  a  little  stab  of  pain,  perhaps — of  morti- 
fied vanity,  more  likely ;  but  it  will  be  a  very  little  one,  not 
big  enough  to  spoil  his  dinner  (he  likes  his  dinner) ;  while 
you,  my  poor  soul,  where  will  you  be  ?  " 

She  has  been  lying  with  her  head  in  my  lap ;  at  these 
last  words  she  snatches  it  hurriedly  up. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  cries,  in  a  fury.  "  How 
dare  you  pity  me  ?  I  am  not  a  c  poor  soul.'  I  am  a  very 
fortunate  person — very  much  to  be  envied.  Hundreds  of 
people  would  change  places  with  me ;  EO  would  you,  if  you 
could." 

"Hm!     I  don't  know." 

A  pause. 

"  Lenore,"  say  I,  earnestly,  putting  my  hand  under  her 
chin,  and  lifting  her  unwilling  face  toward  mine,  "  listen  to 
me,  for  I  am  talking  sense.  I  never  had  a  husband,  which 
is  more  my  misfortune  than  my  fault,  but  all  the  same,  I 
know  what  I  am  about.  If  you  marry  Charlie  now,  you 
will  like  him  at  last  /  I  am  sure  of  that.  I  do  not  believe 
in  the  most  perversely  faithful  woman  always  hating,  al- 
ways having  a  distaste  for  a  handsome,  manly,  loving  hus- 
band. Yes,  you  will  end  by  liking  him  even  better  than  he 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  305 

does  you.  It  is  always  the  way.  But  you  will  have  to  go 
through  purgatory  first ;  and,  what  is  more  unfair,  you  will 
have  to  drag  him  through  too,  poor  boy  !  " 

"  Bah ! "  she  says,  with  a  scornful  laugh  ;  "  it  is  nothing 
when  you  are  used  to  it.  If  I  have  not  been  there,  I  am 
sure  I  do  not  know  where  I  have  been,  ever  since  that  ac- 
cursed ball.  Shall  I  ever  again  hear  those  detestable  fiddles 
squeaking,  and  those  vile  wind  instruments  blowing  and 
blaring,  without  going  mad  ?  I  doubt  it — I  doubt  it !  " — 
putting  her  hands  wildly  to  her  ears,  as  if  to  shut  out 
sounds  of  utter  pain  and  horror. 

"  You  rather  dislike  him  than  otherwise  now,"  pursue  I, 
pushing  my  advantage  ;  "  you  are  always  better  pleased  to 
see  him  leave  a  room  than  enter  it.  Well,  before  your 
wedding-tour  is  over,  you  will  abhor  him.  It  requires  an 
immense  stock  of  love  at  starting  to  support  the  dead 
sweet  monotony  of  a  honeymoon." 

She  shudders. 

"  My  dear  child,"  I  cry,  with  affectionate  emphasis, 
"  think  better  of  it ;  if  you  must  marry  him — poor  dear 
Charlie,  I  am  sorry  for  him — at  least  put  it  off  for  six 
months ;  let  us  have  a  little  time  to  breathe.  If  you  will 
reflect  a  moment,  I  think  you  will  see  that  to  be  handed  on 
from  one  man  to  another  within  a  week  is  hardly  lady-like, 
hardly  modest !  " 

At  the  last  word  .the  deep  red  on  her  cheeks  grows  yet 
deeper ;  but  by  the  hard,  defiant  smile  that  curls  her  lips  I 
know  that  I  might  as  well  have  spoken  to  the  winter  wind 
that  is  howling  and  gnashing  its  angry  teeth  outside. 

"  Jemima,"  she  says,  calmly,  "  as  I  once  before  observed 
to  you,  you  will  never  make  your  fortune  in  the  pulpit ; 
your  sentiments  are  first  rate,  but  they  make  one  drowsy. 
See,  I  am  yawning  myself.  As  to  modest,  that  is  neither 
here  nor  there  ;  you  dragged  in  the  word  by  the  head  and 


306  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

shoulders  to  prop  your  argument.  As  to  lady-lilce,  it  is  a 
matter  of  the  most  perfect  indifference  to  me  whether  I  am 
or  not." 

To  this  I  say  nothing.  I  only  walk  away  to  the  win- 
dow. 

"  Do  not  dissuade  me  ! "  she  cries,  falling  from  defiance 
to  a  tone  of  almost  nervous  entreaty,  as  she  stands  before 
me,  twisting  her  hands.  "  Let  me  marry  him  in  peace. 
Your  little  cut-and-dried  saws  are  very  neatly  cut,  very  ac- 
curately dried,  but  they  do  not  fit  /  you  mean  well,  but  one 
knows  one's  self  best." 

«Hm!" 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  continues,  with  irritable  impa- 
tience, "  that  I  can  go  on  now  in  the  old  groove — the  old 
groove  that  I  kept  so  contentedly  to  before — before  the 
earth  opened  and  swallowed  all  I  had  ?  " 

No  answer. 

"  Can  I  go  on,"  she  pursues,  with  deepening  agitation, 
"  watching  you  drop  the  stitches  in  your  knitting,  listening 
to  Sylvia's  weak  cackle,  hearing  those  awful  children  plung- 
ing and  bellowing  about  ?  Do  you  know,  Jemima,  for  the 
last  few  days,  every  time  they  have  come  blundering  and 
shrieking  into  the  room,  I  have  felt  inclined  to  scream  out 
loud  ?  I  have  not  done  it,  because  you  would  have  put  me 
into  a  mad-house  if  I  had ;  but,  all  the  same,  I  have  felt  the 
inclination." 

I  shake  my  head  despondently. 

"  If  he  marries  me,"  she  says,  her  eyes  wandering  rest- 
lessly about,  and  speaking  quickly  and  excitedly,  "  he  will 
take  me  away  to  beautiful  places,  away  from  all  the  dread- 
ful old  things  and  people.  It  will  be  delightful — delight- 
ful !  I  shall  begin  all  over  again — my  life  over  again !  He 
will  take  me  where  there  are  no  children — no  Sylvias — no 
Jemimas — no  self!  Yes"  (laughing  uneasily),  "I  mean 


WE  A  T  THE  A  UTHOR  SA  Ytf.  307 

to  leave  myself  beliind.  I  mean  to  be  a  new,  fresh  person 
— a  happy,  prosperous  person.  I  wish  to  be  happy — I  am 
determined  to  be  happy.  Jemima"  (entreatingly),  "for 
God's  sake,  do  not  hinder  me  ! " 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

WHAT     THE     AUTHOR     SATS. 

PEOPLE  cannot  keep  their  mouths  open  forever — not 
even  Jemima  Herrick — they  must  shut  them  at  last.  Mostly 
they  shut  them  very  soon.  No  passion  is  so  short-lived  as 
astonishment.  "  A  nine-days'  wonder  "  is  a  hyperbolical 
expression.  Who  ever  wondered  at  the  awfullest  murder, 
the  most  startling  esclandre,  the  most  unlooked-for  turn  of 
Fortune's  quick  wheel,  during  nine  whole  days  ?  If  walk- 
ing on  your  head  were  to  come  into  fashion,  within  three 
days  it  would  excite  no  surprise  to  see  people  pounding 
along  the  pavement  on  their  hats  and  bonnets,  with  their 
boots  in  the  air.  The  neighborhood  has  been  informed  of 
Lenore's  transfer  from  one  lover  to  the  other,  and  its  "  ohs  " 
and  "  ahs,"  and  head-shakings  thereon,  are  over  and  done 
with.  After  all,  they  have  been  fewer  than  have  been  ex- 
pected; people  had  so  long  made  up  their  minds  that 
Scrope  was  the  right  man  that  few  of  them  had  arrived  at 
the  knowledge  that  he  was  the  wrong  one  before  they  were 
officially  informed  that  he  was  the  right  one  again.  He 
has  always  been  seen  about  with  her ;  he  is  evidently  her 
fittest  mate  in  youth  and  comeliness ;  in  this  case  all  the 
sympathy  goes  with  the  successful  lover.  Does  not  he  ride 
as  straight  as  a  die  ?  Is  not  he  as  handsome  as  paint  ?  Do 
not  we  know  all  his  antecedents  ?  Does  not  his  property 


808  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

lie,  docs  not  his  ugly  old  red  abbey  stand,  in  this  our 
county  ?  Paul,  unknown,  plain,  and  saturnine,  commands 
neither  good  wishes  nor  regrets.  It  has  been  announced 
that  the  engagement  was  dissolved  by  mutual  consent — a 
course  always  adopted  by  the  friends  of  the  lady  when  the 
gentleman  cries  off.  Lenore,  however,  is  no  party  to  this 
deception.  Everybody's  presents  have  been  returned  to 
him,  and  again  sent  back.  On  the  principle  of  "  To  him 
that  hath  shall  be  given,"  the  rich  Mrs.  Scrope's  wedding- 
gifts  are  threefold  greater  and  more  numerous  than  those 
of  the  poor  Mrs.  Le  Mesurier.  On  hearing  of  the  change  in 
her  fortunes — if  not  for  the  better,  at  least  for  the  more 
consequential — the  Websters  supplement  their  portly  tea- 
pot with  a  cream-jug  and  sugar-basin  to  match.  And  Le- 
nore, when  she  sees  the  teapot  come  back — the  teapot  out 
of  which  she  was  to  have  poured  Paul's  tea,  in  the  little 
narrow  house  they  had  planned — she  laughs  violently. 

"  Do  not  let  them  send  me  any  new  congratulations — 
any  of  them,"  she  says,  dryly ;  "  tell  them  the  old  ones  will 
do ;  they  need  only  alter  the  initials,  as  I  am  doing  with 
my  pocket-handkerchiefs." 

Scrope  has  no  father,  and  Lenore  has  no  money,  which 
two  facts  greatly  facilitate  the  law  arrangements.  Wheth- 
er indecently  soon  or  not,  the  wedding-day  is  drawing  on. 
Lenore  has  thrown  herself  into  the  business  of  trousseau- 
buying  with  an  ardor  more  than  feminine — with  an  artistic 
frenzy  of  a  Frenchwoman,  of  a  petite  maitresse  enragee. 

"  Finery  always  was  my  snare,"  she  says,  laughing. 
"  I  loved  even  my  cotton  gowns  and  gingham  umbrellas 
tenderly  ;  but  now — if  being  married  entails  such  a  satur- 
nalia of  fine  clothes,  I  should  like  to  have  a  wedding  every 
year." 

Lenore  is  very  lively  ;  she  runs  about  the  house  all  day 
•inging;  she  walks,  she  rides,  she  plays  billiards;  she 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  309 

studies  "  Murray  "  and  "  Bradshaw  "  with  avidity,  making 
out  routs  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  ;  but  she  never  sits  still. 
Her  cheeks  are  rosy  red,  and  her  eyes  sparkle  and  glitter 
like  beautifullest  great  sapphires. 

"  You  are  quite  the  most  eager  bride  I  ever  saw,"  Syl- 
via says  one  day,  with  a  doubtful  compliment.  "  Poor 
Charlie  toils  after  you  in  vain.  I  always  imagined  that 
impatience  was  the  monopoly  of  the  gentleman ;  I  am 
sure  "  (sighing  and  looking  down)  "  it  was  so  in  my  case. 
I  thought  the  days  raced  by — positively  raced  /  if  you  re- 
member, Jemima,  I  said  so  to  you  at  the  time." 

"Did  you?     I  dare  say." 

"Now,  Lenore,  on  the  contrary,  seems  anxious  to 
hurry  them.  Fancy ! "  casting  up  her  eyes  and  hands  to 
heaven. 

"  I  am  anxious,"  says  the  girl,  smiling  rather  wistfully. 
"  I  mean  to  be  so  happy — I  want  to  begin.  I  am  sorry  it 
is  not  en  regie  /  but  I  cannot  help  that.  How  many  more 
days  are  there  ?  One,  two,  three,  four,  five — bah ! "  (tak- 
ing up  two  parcels  that  lie  on  the  hall-table),  "  a  couple 
more  ivory  prayer-books  !  Jemima,  if  there  come  any  more 
prayer-books,  you  must  send  them  back,  and  say  that  there 
is  a  glut  of  books  of  devotion." 

The  wedding-feast  is  to  be  gay  and  large ;  the  house  to 
be  crowded  and  crammed  from  attic  to  cellar,  chiefly  wiiji 
Scrope's  people;  mother,  unmarried  sister,  married  sister 
and  husband,  uncles,  unmarried  men,  cousins. 

"  A  perfect  horde  of  barbarians ! "  says  Sylvia,  com- 
placently swimming  into  the  drawing-room,  on  the  after- 
noon of  the  day  on  which  they  are  expected,  her  little  fig- 
ure very  upright,  head  slightly  thrown  back,  and  bust  pro- 
truded, as  is  her  way  when  the  war-paint  is  on.  "  I  have 
quite  a  good  mind  to  run  away  and  hide  myself  in  a  corner, 
and  leave  Tommy,  as  my  deputy,  to  receive  them. — Will 


310  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

you,  Tommy  ?  How  amusing  it  would  be,  and  how  aston- 
ished they  would  look ! " 

"  One  could  hardly  wonder  at  them,"  answers  Jemima, 
dryly.  Jemima's  head  and  bust  are  much  as  usual. 

"  As  long  as  I  have  Charlie  beside  me  I  don't  mind," 
continues  Mrs.  Prodgers,  looking  at  herself  over  her  left 
shoulder  in  the  glass,  in  one  of  Sylvia's  strained  and  dis- 
torted attitudes ;  "  he  is  my  sheet-anchor.  Poor,  dear,  old 
Charlie  ! "  (laughing  a  little)  "  to  think  of  his  going  to  be 
one's  brother  !  It  is  too  ridiculous !  " 

It  is  the  evening  before  the  wedding ;  the  lit  rooms  are 
gayly  alive  with  many  guests ;  not  only  those  staying  in 
the  house,  but  also  dinner-guests.  Many  more  are  expect- 
ed; some  of  them  already  uncloaking  outside,  for  Sylvia 
has  decreed  a  dance. 

"  We  must  have  a  band"  she  has  said,  meditatively, 
when  making  the  arrangements.  "  There  is  no  use  doing 
a  thing  unless  you  do  it  well.  Yes,  a  band ;  they  can  go 
so  nicely  in  the  recess  under  the  stairs." 

"  It  is  dreary  work  pounding  over  a  carpet,  to  the  tune 
of  a  piano,  supported  only  by  lemonade  and  negus,"  Je- 
mima says. 

"  When  people  come  on  a  first  visit,"  says  Sylvia,  sa- 
piently,  "  they  always  come  to  criticise.  Did  you  notice 
how  they  all  looked  me  over,  from  top  to  toe,  when  they 
came  in  to-day — pricing  me,  as  it  were  ?  Well,  I  wish  to 
be  beyond  criticism." 

"  Don't  have  a  band ! "  cries  Lenore,  hastily ;  "  if  you 
do,  I  shall  go  to  bed — that  is  all.  I  warn  you.  Those 
dreadful  fiddles,  squeaking  and  shrieking,  go  right  through 
my  head.  Have  a  piano,  and  I  will  promise  to  play  for 
you  from  now  till  the  Judgment-Day." 

So  a  piano  it  is.  The  dancing  has  not  yet  begun,  but 
we  all  stand  about  in  an  unsettled  way,  that  shows  that 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  811 


something  is  imminent.  Detachments  of  people  are  being 
taken  to  be  shown  the  wedding  presents.  The  hot-red 
roses  have  to-night  left  Lenore's  cheeks ;  she  is  very  white 
— deadly  white,  one  would  say  ;  only  that  it  is  a  dishonor 
to  the  warm,  milk  whiteness  of  living  loveliness,  to  liken 
it  to  the  hue  that  is  our  foe's  ensign.  She  is  pale,  but  her 
eyes  outblaze  the  star  that  quivers  and  lightens  in  Mrs. 
Scrope's  gray  head. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  are  not  a  Mourning  JBride"  says 
Scrope's  eldest  sister,  Mrs.  Lascelles,  a  frisky  young  ma- 
tron, pretty  as  hair  like  floss  silk,  Paris  clothes  falling  off 
her  soft,  fat  shoulders,  and  English  jewels,  can  make  her, 
looking  with  a  sort  of  inquisitive  admiration  at  the  restless 
pale  beauty  of  her  future  sister-in-law's  face.  "  Not  that  I 
can  say  any  thing  "  (laughing  lightly)  ;  "  I  cried  for  three 
whole  days  before  my  wedding.  Mamma  said  that  my  eyes 
looked  as  if  they  had  been  sewn  in  with  red  worsted. — Did 
not  you,  mamma  ?  " 

Mrs.  Scrope  smiles  the  placid  smile  of  prosperous,  stall- 
fed  maturity. 

"  I  did  more  than  that,"  continues  the  other,  still  laugh- 
ing ;  "  I  cried  for  a  fortnight  afterward !  We  went  to 
Brittany"  (making  a  disgusted  face),  "andRegy  was  ill 
all  the  way  from  Southampton  to  St.-Malo.  I  tried  to  look 
as  if  he  did  not  belong  to  me.  I  am  sure  even  the  waiters 
at  the  hotels  were  sorry  for  me — I  looked  so  dejected!  " 

At  the  mention  of  Brittany  Lenore  winces,  and  then  be- 
gins to  talk  quickly  and  laughingly : 

"  Must  one  cry  ?  I  hope  not.  If  it  is  indispensable,  I 
will  try  /  but  I  am  afraid  I  shall  not  succeed.  I  am  not  a 
good  hand  at  crying.  I  never  cry." 

They  are  to  dance  in  the  hall ;  the  oak  floor  has  been 
polished  and  doctored  to  the  last  pitch  of  slipperiness ;  the 
stags'  heads  have  mistletoe  wreaths.  Plenty  of  light, 


312  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

plenty  of  warmth,  plenty  of  space,  plenty  of  men — what 
more  can  any  rabidest  dance-lover  desire  ?  To  the  general 
surprise,  Lenore  sits  down  to  the  piano ;  everybody  remon- 
strates. 

"  Usurping  my  place  1 "  says  Jemima,  cheerfully,  put- 
ting her  hands  on  her  sister's  shoulders.  "  Off  with  you ! " 

"On  the  contrary,"  returns  Lenore,  with  a  perverse 
smile,  "  I  mean  to  adorn  this  stool  till  two  o'clock  to-mor- 
row morning.  Go  away — dance — caper  about,  it  amuses 
you.  As  for  me,  I  hate  it.  Va-tfen  !  " 

"  Come  on ! "  cries  Scrope,  half  in  and  half  out  of  his 
gray  gloves,  and  looking  radiantly  happy  and  handsome. 
"  What  do  you  mean  by  settling  yourself  there  ?  Jemima 
is  going  to  play ;  she  always  does  ;  she  likes  it. — Don't 
you,  Jemima  ?  " 

Jemima  smiles  grimly.  All  very  well  to  be  conscious 
that  your  life-mission  is  to  pipe  for  other  people  to  dance, 
but  a  little  hard  to  be  expected  to  express  enjoyment  of 
the  rile! 

"  I  am  not  going  to  '  Come  on  ! '  "  answers  Lenore,  pet- 
tishly. "  I  mean  to  stay  here.  Go  away  ! " 

" '  Go  away  ! '  "  cries  the  young  fellow,  leaning  his  arms 
on  the  piano,  and  looking  desperately  sentimental.  "  A 
very  likely  story  !  " 

. "  For  Heaven's  sake,  put  your  head  straight ! "  she  says, 
crossly.  "  When  you  cock  it  on  one  side  like  that,  you  look 
like  a  bullfinch  about  to  pipe.  I  hate  dancing — there  ! " 

"  Since  when  ? "  he  asks,  incredulously.  "  Not  long 
ago  you  told  me  that  you  loved  it  better  than  any  thing 
else  in  life." 

"  Not  so  very  long  ago,  when  I  was  cutting  my  teeth,  I 
loved  sucking  an  India-rubber  ring  better  than  any  thing 
else  in  life.  Do  you  insist  on  my  sucking  it  still  ?  "  she 
says,  dryly,  turning  over  a  heap  of  music.  "  Don't  be  a 
nuisance.  Go  away  ! " 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  313 

He  goes.  In  five  minutes,  all,  not  incapacitated  by  age 
and  fat,  and  some  even  that  lie  under  these  disabilities,  are 
scampering  round.  As  there  are  plenty  of  men,  several  of 
the  chaperones  condescend  to  tread  a  measure.  Lenore 
plays  on  dreamily ;  it  is  an  air  that  the  band  played  at 
Dinan  one  night  last  summer ;  as  the  brisk,  gay  melody 
fills  her  ears,  the  room,  the  people,  the  wax-lights  vanish  ; 
she  is  in  the  Place  du  Guesclin  again.  How  dark  it  is ! 
The  lights  from  the  hotel  show  small  and  red ;  the  sabots 
clump  past.  How  close  to  our  faces  the  green-lime  flowers 
swing ! 

She  is  roused  by  an  eager  voice  at  her  ear. 

"  One  turn — only  one  !  I  have  danced  with  every- 
thing that  has  any  pretensions  to  age,  weight,  or  ugliness. 
Pay  me  for  it — only  one  turn  !  " 

Scrope  stands  by  her,  panting  a  little.  His  broad  chest 
heaves,  and  his  wide  blue  eyes  glitter  with  a  passionate 
excitement.  She  shrugs  her  shoulders,  but,  as  though  it 
were  too  much  trouble  to  argue  the  point,  complies.  Je- 
mima takes  her  place,  and  they  set  off.  After  flying 
silently  round  for  a  few  minutes,  they  stop.  Scrope,  even 
in  stopping,  unwilling  to  release  her  from  his  arms,  gazes 
into  her  face  with  a  passionate  rapture,  to  see  whether  the 
delight  he  feels  is  at  all  shared. 

"  I  hate  it ! "  she  says,  irritably.  "  It  tears  my  dress  ; 
it  loosens  my  hair ;  it  takes  away  my  breath.  Let  us  go 
to  some  cool  place." 

They  saunter  away  to  the  conservatory.     The  Chinese 

•lanterns  swing  aloft,  their  flames  spiring  up  in  dangerous 

proximity  to  the  pink-and-green  walls  of  their  frail  prisons. 

The   daphnes   and   narcissi  and   lilies   of  the   valley   are 

uniting  their  various  odors  in  one  divinest  harmony  of 

scent,  like  a  concert  of  noblest  voices.     Lenore  throws  her- 

14 


314  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

self  wearily  into  a  garder -chair,  and  begins  to  fan  her- 
self. 

"  Let  me  fan  you,"  says  her  lover,  tenderly,  taking  the 
fan  out  of  her  hand  and  leaning  over  her ;  "  it  will  save 
you  trouble.  My  darling,  you  look  pale  to-night." 

"  My  darling,  you  look  red  to-night !  "  retorts  she,  with 
a  mockery  more  bitter  than  playful,  glancing  up  at  the 
flushed  beauty  of  his  face.  "  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  let 
us  register  the  variations  in  each  other's  complexion  ! " 

An  arrow  shoots  through  the  young  man's  bounding 
heart.  Is  she  going  to  change  her  mind  ?  Now  that  the 
prize  is  almost  within  his  hand,  must  he  lose  it  at  this  last 
moment  ? 

"  Have  I  done  any  thing  to  vex  you  ?  "  he  asks,  anx- 
iously, kneeling  down  on  the  stone  pavement  at  her  feet. 
"  You  know  how  idiotically  fond  I  am  of  you ;  for  Heaven's 
sake,  do  not  take  advantage  of  it  to  play  tricks  with  me ! 
What  is  the  matter  with  you  to-night  ?  You  are  out  of 
spirits." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  cries,  angrily.  "  I  never 
was  in  better  spirits  in  my  life.  Everybody  remarks  it ; 
everybody  says  how  lively  I  am.  I  talk  all  day,  and  I 
laugh  more  than  I  ever  did  in  my  life  before.  Would  you 
have  one  always  grinning  like  a  Cheshire  cat  ?  " 

"  You  talk  and  laugh,  it  is  true,"  he  answers,  with  a 
grave  air  of  anxiety ;  "  but  you  are  much  thinner  than  you 
were.  Look  at  this  arm  "  (touching  the  round  white  limb, 
as  it  lies  listlessly  across  her  lap) ;  "  it  is  not  half  the  size 
it  was  three  weeks  ago." 

"  So  much  the  better,"  she  answers,  with  a  laugh  ;  "  rrr^ 
arms  were  much  too  big  before.  Sylvia  was  always 
abusing  them ;  it  is  much  more  refined  to  have  smaller 
arms." 

"  You  will  be  all  right  when  we  get  to  Italy,"  he  says, 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  315 

fondly ;  "  you  will  like  that,  will  not  you  ?  Oh  !  sweet ! " 
(leaning  over  her,  with  a  passion  of  irrepressible  exulta- 
tion) ;  "  can  I  believe  that  I  am  waking  when  I  think  that 
long  before  this  time  to-morrow  you  will  be  my  wife? — 
that  at  last — at  last — we  shall  belong  to  one  another,  for 
always?"'1 

She  shivers  a  little. 

"To-day  is  to-day,  and  to-morrow  is  to-morrow,"  she 
says,  sententiously ;  "  to-day,  let  us  talk  of  to-day ;  we  may 
both  be  dead  by  to-morrow." 

"Both!"  (smiling  a  little) ;  "that  is  hardly  likely." 

"  One  of  us,  then ;  only  the  other  day  I  read  in  the 
Times  of  a  bride  who  was  found  dead  in  her  bed  on  her 
wedding-morning.  O  my  God ! "  (flinging  out  her  arms, 
and  then  throwing  her  head  down  on  her  knees,)  "  if  I  had 
but  the  very  slightest  chance  of  going  to  heaven,  how  I 
wish  I  could  be  found  dead  in  my  bed  !  " 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  "  cries  Scrope,  shocked 
and  astonished  at  this  unlooked-for  outburst.  "Lenore! 
look  me  in  the  face  and  say  you  did  not  mean  it.  I  know 
you  have  a  random  way  of  talking,  sometimes — Jemima 
says  so  ;  but,  do  you  know,  when  you  say  such  things  you 
break  my  heart  ?  " 

"  Do  I  ?  "  she  says,  lifting  her  wild  white  face,  unsoft- 
ened  by  any  tears.  "  I  am  glad.  Why  should  not  I  break 
it  ?  I  have  broken  my  own — you  know  that  well  enough 
— why  should  not  you  suffer  too  ?  As  for  me,  I  suffer — I 
suffer  always — all  day  and  all  night.  I  am  glad  to  hear  of 
any  one  else  being  miserable  too.  What  have  I  done, 
that  I  should  have  a  monopoly  of  it  ?  "  He  stares  at  her, 
in  a  stony  silence.  "  There,"  she  sa}Ts,  after  a  pause,  with 
a  sickly  smile,  pushing  her  hair  off  her  forehead,  "  I  am  all 
right  now  !  I  was  only — only — -joking  !  Pay  no  atten- 
tion to  any  thing  I  said ;  I  was  only  ranting.  I  think  I 


316  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

have  been  overdoing  myself  a  little  the  last  few  days.  Sup- 
pose you  go  ?  I  shall  get  well  quicker  if  I  am  by  myself." 

So  he  goes,  slowly  and  heavily.  She  has  taken  all  the 
lightness  out  of  his  feet  and  out  of  his  heart ;  it  feels  like 
a  pound  of  lead.  He  makes  his  way  up  to  the  piano. 

"  Jemima,"  he  says,  in  a  low  voice,  "  my  sister  will  play 
for  you  ;  I  want  you  to  go  to  Lenore ;  she  is  not  very  well, 
I  think — rather  hysterical ;  she  is  in  the  conservatory,  she 
would  not  let  me  stay  with  her." 

So  Jemima  goes. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

WHAT     JEMIMA     SAYS. 

"WHAT  next?"  think  I,  hurrying  off,  as  bidden. 
"  What  new  freak  ?  Well,  if  I  had  been  born  with  a  sil- 
ver spoon  in  my  mouth  I  would  not  have  spent  my  life  in 
bewailing  and  lamenting  that  it  was  not  a  pewter  one." 
In  the  conservatory  no  Lenore  !  Only  two  time-worn  flirts 
of  either  sex,  shooting  their  blunt  little  old  arrows  at  each 
other's  tough  hearts,  under  a  red  camellia.  I  do  not  know 
why  I  do  it,  but  I  pass  along,  through  the  flowers,  to  a  door 
at  the  other  end  that  gives  upon  the  outer  air,  and,  opening 
it,  look  forth.  It  is  snowing  rather  fast ;  great,  shapeless 
flakes  floating  down  with  disorderly  slowness,  but  it  is  not 
very  dark.  My  knowledge  of  my  sister  has  not  been  at 
fault,  for,  through  the  snow,  I  see  her,  at  a  little  distance 
from  me,  walking  quickly  up  and  down  a  terrace-walk,  with 
her  head  bent  and  her  hands  clasped  before  her.  "  How 
good  for  a  person  with  a  weak  chest ! "  I  cry,  indignantly, 
skipping  gingerly  out  on  the  toes  of  my  white  satin  boots, 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  31 T 

and  flinging1  the  tail  of  my  gown  adroitly  over  my  head. 
"  Any  one  more  unfit  for  death  or  more  resolute  to  die  than 
you,  I  have  seldom  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting." 

I  put  my  arm  within  hers  and  drag  her  along,  back  into  the 
lighted  warmth  of  the  conservatory.  A  great  tier  of  orange- 
trees  and  chrysanthemums  hides  us  from  the  veteran  lovers. 
I  look  at  her :  the  snow-flakes  rest  thickly  on  her  hair,  on 
her  flimsy  dress ;  run  in  melted  drops  off  her  chilled  white 
shoulders. 

"It  does  not  wet  one  much,"  she  says,  with  a  rather 
deprecating  smile.  "  See,  one  can  blow  them  away.  How 
white  they  are !  They  will  make  the  snowdrops  that  the 
school-children  are  to  strew  before  me  to-morrow  look  quite 
dirty,  will  not  they  ?  " 

"Lunatic!"  cry  I,  highly  exasperated,  shaking  her; 
"  fool !  If  I  may  be  permitted  to  ask,  what  is  the  reason 
of  this?" 

"  I  was  hot,"  she  says,  a  little  wildly,  "  stifled !  Those 
flowers  stifle  me.  Odious  jonquils  !  Did  ever  any  flowers 
smell  so  heavily  ?  They  are  like  the  ones  in  that  dreadful 
bouquet  Charlie  brought  me  for  the  ball." 

I  am  shaking  and  flicking,  with  my  best  lace  pocket- 
handkerchief,  the  snow  from  off  her  dress,  so  make  no 
answer. 

"  You  know,  from  a  child,  I  was  fond  of  running  out, 
bareheaded,  into  a  shower ;  I  liked  to  feel  the  great  cool 
drops  patter,  patter  on  my  hair.  I  wish  to  God  I  could  feel 
them  now !  Put  yonr  hand  on  my  head"  (lifting  my  cold, 
red  hand,  and  placing  it  on  the  top  of  her  own  sleek  head). 

"My  good  child,"  say  I,  startled,  "  you  are  in  a  fever ! " 

"  Jemima,"  she  says,  taking  down  my  hand  again,  and 
holding  it  hard  pressed  between  her  two  hot  white  ones, 
while  her  glittering  eyes  burn  on  my  face,  "  I  am  quite 
happy,  as  you  know,  perfectly.  No  one  has  more  cause  to 


318  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

be  so.  I  am  quite  young ;  I  am  better  looking  than  most 
people ;  to-morrow  I  shall  be  rich,  very  rich ;  which,  after 
all,  includes  all  the  others ;  but,  do  you  know,  sometimes, 
within  the  last  few  days,  I  have  thought — it  is  a  ridiculous 
idea,  of  course,  but  sometimes  I  have  thought  I  was  going 
mad!  How  do  people  begin  to  go  mad?  Tell  me." 

Her  voice  has  sunk  to  an  awed  whisper. 

"  Fiddlestick ! "  cry  I,  contemptuously.  "  Do  not  be 
alarmed,  only  clever  people  go  mad ;  no  fear  for  you." 

"  If  any  one  comes  suddenly  into  a  room,  if  any  one 
bangs  a  door  or  speaks  in  a  key  at  all  louder  than  usual,  I 
feel  as  if  I  must  shriek  out  loud.  I  told  you  so  the  other 
day,  if  you  remember,  talking  of  the  children.  Sometimes 
I  am  afraid  of  lifting  my  eyes  to  your  or  any  one  else's 
face,  for  fear  you  should  think  they  looked  mad." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  interrupt  I  again,  now  thoroughly  angry. 
"  It  is  all  nerves.  Nerves  are  troublesome  things,  if  you 
are  not  moderately  careful  of  them,  and  you  never  give 
yours  a  chance ;  you  never  sit  still,  you  never  rest,  and  it 
is  my  belief  that  you  never  sleep." 

"  Not  if  I  can  help  it,"  she  says,  feverishly  ;  "  not  if  I  can 
help  it.  Sometimes,when  I  feel  myself  falling  asleep,!  get  out 
of  bed  and  walk  about  in  the  cold  to  wake  myself  thoroughly. 
I  hate  sleep ;  it  is  my  enemy !  As  sure  as  ever  I  fall  asleep,  I 
am  back  in  Brittany  with  him ;  we  are  as — as  we  used  to  be." 

"  If  I  were  you,"  say  I,  with  that  sober  eye  to  the  main 
chance  with  which  one  regards  life  after  five-and-twenty,  "I 
should  be  glad  to  wake  from  such  a  dream  to  find  how 
much  more  prosperous  the  reality  is." 

"  So  I  am,  so  I  am  !  "  she  answers,  hastily,  contradict- 
ing herself.  "  Of  course,  it  is  prosperous,  is  it  not  ? 
Everybody  says  so.  You — you  are  not  joking ^  are  you, 
Jemima,  when  you  say  I  am  so  prosperous  ?  "  (her  eyes 
resting  distrustfully  on  my  face).  "  I  am  really,  am  I  not  ? 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  319 

* 
But  sometimes  I  think,  when  I  look  at  you,  that  you  are 

pitying  me.  Heaven  knows  why,  for  nobody  needs  it 
less.  If  you  are,  do  not — that  is  all !  I  hate  being  pitied ; 
pity  yourself  instead." 

"  Dreams  or  no  dreams,"  say  I,  trying  to  lead  her  from 
a  theme  which  is  making  her  painfully  excited,  "  you  must 
sleep  to-night,  if  we  give  you  laudanum  enough  to  make 
seven  new  sleepers.  If  you  do  not,  mark  my  words,  to- 
morrow you  will  look  as  yellow  as  the  little  orange  in  your 
wreath."  No  answer,  only  a  vacant  plucking  at  her  dress. 
"Dead-white  in  the  morning,"  say  I,  with  a  judicious  ad- 
hesion to  the  subject  of  millinery,  "  is  almost  always  fatally 
trying  to  the  best  complexions,  particularly  w^hen  in  juxta- 
position with  snow."  No  answer.  "  Only  this  morning 
you  told  me  that  you  were  determined  to  look  your  very 
handsomest." 

"  So  I  am,"  she  says,  rousing  herself,  and  speaking 
with  quick  interest ;  "  so  I  am  ?  You  say  right — I  must 
look  my  best — I  shall ;  one  always  does  when  one  wishes  ; 
my  veil  will  be  down,  too — they  will  not  see  me  very 
clearly,  you  know  ;  but,  however  I  look,  you  must  be  sure 
to  have  it  put  in  the  papers  that  I  looked  beautiful,  and — 
and — radiantly  happy.  They  say  that  sort  of  thing  now 
and  then,  do  not  they  ?  " 

"  As  to  the  being  happy,  never  that  I  saw,"  reply  I, 
snappishly.  "  A  bride's  happiness  is  taken  for  granted." 

"  I  do  not  know  whether  I  ever  mentioned  it  to  you  be- 
fore," she  says,  with  a  hesitating,  strained  smile,  "  but  I 
should  like  the  announcement  put  into  a  good  many  papers 
besides  the  Times — the  Morning  Post,  Standard  ;  but  it 
must  be  in  the  Times,  too,  of  course.  People  always  read 
the  births,  deaths,  and  marriages  in  the  Times,  don't  they  ?  " 

She  asks  this  last  question  with  a  keen  anxiety,  that 
would  have  puzzled  any  looker-on  to  account  for. 


320  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

• 

"  Women  do,"  reply  I,  brusquely.  "  I  do  not  think  that 
men  ever  look  at  them." 

"  What  nonsense  you  talk  !  "  she  cries,  rudely.  "  Of 
course,  they  do.  They  always  glance  over  them,  at  the 
least,  to  see  whether  there  is  any  name  they  know.  I  have 
seen  them,  a  hundred  times.  I  have  seen  Charlie — " 

"  What  about  Charlie  ?  "  cries  the  young  man,  appear- 
ing round  the  screen  of  flowers  simultaneously  with  his 
name.  "  He  has  not  done  any  thing  fresh,  has  he  ?  "  (try- 
ring  to  laugh,  but  yet  speaking  with  a  most  anxious  smile). 
"  Jemima,  how  is  she  ? — how  are  you  now,  my  darling  ?  " 
(taking  her  in  his  arms  with  as  little  heed  to  my  presence 
as  if  I  also  were  a  prim  dumb  camellia). 

"  How  am  If  "  retorts  she,  pushing  him  away  with  a 
gesture  of  distaste,  and  then,  as  if  bethinking  herself,  ac- 
cepting his  embrace.  "  Why,  how  should  I  be  ?  Much  as 
I  have  been  any  time  these  nineteen  years,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  solitary  week  when  I  had  the  croup.  Reassure 
yourself — I  have  not  the  croup  now,  and  I  never  have  any 
other  diseases." 

He  looks  at  her  silently,  with  a  pale,  passionate  wist- 
fulness. 

"  You  mean  to  be  kind,"  she  says,  in  a  constrained 
voice,  with  a  sort  of  remorse,  "  and  you  really  are  a  very 
good  fellow.  I  do  think  so  always,  though  I  show  it  rather 
oddly  now  and  then,  perhaps  ;  but  you  must  know  that  I 
have  an  inveterate  aversion  to  being  asked  how  I  am.  It 
is  not  confined  to  me.  Many  people  have  the  same  feel- 
ing. I  really  "  (with  a  forced  smile)  "  must  draw  up  a  list 
of  prohibitions  for  you — c  You  must  not  do  this,'  and  *  You 
must  not  do  that ' — before  we  set  off  on  our  travels,  or  we 
shall  inevitably  come  to  blows  before  a  week  is  over." 

"  Do ! "  cries  the  young  man,  eagerly,  as  one  catching 
at  a  straw.  "  I  do  seem  to  be  always  blundering,  don't  I  ? 


WHAT  JEMIMA   SAYS.  321 

and  saying  the  wrong  thing  ?  One  would  think  I  did  it  on 
purpose  ;  but,  as  I  live,  I  do  not.  I  shall  get  better,  how- 
ever," he  continues,  hastily,  as  if  afraid  of  her  taking  ad- 
vantage of  his  confession  ;  "  every  day  I  shall  get  better. 
Being  with  you  always,  I  shall  grow  to  understand  your 
character  better. — Dunce  as  I  am,  1  cannot  help  doing  that, 
can  I,  Jemima  ?  " 

"  I  really  do  not  know,"  reply  I,  turning  away  with  a 
dry  smile  ;  "  there  are  some  very  sharp  corners  and  unex- 
pected turns  in  it,  I  can  assure  you." 

"Jemima  is  right,"  says  Lenore,  gravely,  gently  un- 
winding his  arms  from  about  her.  "  You  have  got  a  very 
indifferent  bargain,  pleased  as  you  are  with  it.  To  let  you 
into  a  secret,  you  have  overreached  yourself.  You  will  get 
a  bad  character  of  me  from  all  the  people  I  have  spent  my 
life  with ;  I  have  the  distinction  of  having  everybody's  ill 
word." 

"  I  dare  say "  (defiantly,  while  his  eyes  recklessly, 
boundlessly  fond,  grow  to  her  calm,  chill  face). 

"  It  is  not  too  late  yet,"  she  says,  in  a  low  voice  that 
has  yet  nothing  of  the  whisper  in  it ;  "  it  is  one  o'clock  ;  I 
hear  it  striking.  You  have  yet  ten  hours'  grace." 

"  Ten  hours  !  "  cries  the  young  fellow,  mildly,  throwing 
his  arms  again  about  her,  and  straining  her,  whether  she 
will  or  no,  to  his  riotous  heart.  "  Lenore  !  Lenore  !  the 
nearer  the  time  grows  the  farther  you  seem  to  get  away 
from  me.  Are  you  going  to  slip  away  from  me  altogether 
at  the  last  moment,  as  you  did  out  of  my  arms  just  now  ? 
But  no  ! — why  do  I  put  such  ideas  into  your  head  ?  It  is 
too  late.  You  could  not  throw  me  over  now,  if  you  wished. 
Reckless  as  you  are  of  all  conventionality,  even  you  dare 
not  do  that." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  "  she  asks,  petulantly, 
with  a  nervous  laugh.  "  Why  should  I  wish  to  throw  you 


322  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

over  ?  If  I  did,  what  could  I  do  with  all  my  fine  clothes, 
and  my  otter-skin  jacket  ?  Do  you  think  I  could  have 
strength  of  mind  to  send  the  Websters'  teapot  travelling 
back  a  second  time  ?  " 

He  continues  looking  at  her,  and  holding  her,  but  says 
nothing. 

"  I  lilce  you,"  she  says,  looking  round  at  me  with  a  sort 
of  nervous  defiance.  "  I  do  not  care  who  says  I  do  not. 
I  am  proud  of  you — I — I — I  love  you.  Do  not  I,  Jemima  ? 
Have  not  I  often  told  you  that  I  do  ?  " 

"  You  have  told  me  a  great  many  things  in  your  time," 
I  say,  oracularly,  "  some  that  were  true  and  some  that  were 
not.  I  will  tell  you  one  thing  in  return,  and  that  is,  that 
if  you  do  not  go  to  bed  now,  this  minute,  to-morrow  you 
will  be  yellower  than  any  orange." 


CHAPTER   XVDI. 

WHAT     JEMIMA     SAYS. 

IT  is  a  circumstance  never  to  be  enough  deplored  by 
the  female  world  that  marriages  and  drawing-rooms  are 
broad  daylight  ceremonies.  Mature  necks  and  faces,  that 
the  great,  bold  sun  makes  look  as  yellow  as  old  law-deeds, 
or  as  the  love-letters  of  twenty  years  ago,  would  gleam 
creamily,  waxily  white,  if  illumined  only  by  benevolent 
candles,  that  seem  to  see  and  make  seen  only  beauties,  and 
slur  over  defects.  Even  the  lilies  and  roses  of  youth — un- 
like the  smooth  perfection  of  their  garden  types — are  con- 
scious of  little  pits,  and  specks,  and  flaws,  when  Day  holds 
his  great  searching  lamp  right  into  their  faces.  Day  repu- 
diates tulle  and  tarletane ;  they  are  none  of  his ;  and,  as 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  323 

he  cannot  rid  himself  of  them,  he  retaliates  by  behaving 
as  glaringly  and  unhandsomely  as  he  can  to  them.  Nature 
is  holding  a  wedding  outside  too,  apparently ;  at  least,  it  is 
all  white,  ichite !  Heaven  has  sent  down  a  storm  of  dia- 
monds in  the  night,  as  a  marriage-present  to  Lenore; 
wherever  you  look  there  is  the  glitter  of  myriad  brilliants. 
Last  night,  at  each  iron  gate  there  was  a  high,  wide  arch 
of  evergreens,  but  during  the  dark  hours  the  fairies  carried 
the  dingy  things  away,  and  replaced  them  by  others  of 
glistening  white  jewels.  They  are  so  bright,  so  bright, 
one  cannot  look  at  them ;  one  turns  away  with  winking 
eyes.  I  fancy  that  with  some  such  lustre  shine  the  arch- 
ways through  which  the  Faithful  People  go  and  come  in 
the  deathless  white  City  of  God. 

There  is  a  mystical  stir  and  bustle  in  the  house ;  every- 
body but  the  bride  has  been  down  to  an  early  breakfast 
and  has  gone  up  again  to  put  their  best  clothes  on.  The 
maid-servants  are  hurrying  about  the  house  in  uniform 
gray  gowns  and  white  caps,  all  except  the  ladies'  maids, 
who  have  the  right  of  exercising  individual  will  in  the 
choice  of  their  magnificence.  The  footmen  have  new  liver- 
ies. The  wedding-breakfast  is  laid  out  in  the  dining-room ; 
I  have  been  reconnoitring  it.  0ne  has  to  look  out  of  win- 
dow to  assure  one's  self  that  the  season  is  winter.  On  the 
long  glittering  table  summer  and  autumn  hold  their  scented 
sway.  Regiments  of  tall  flowers — both  white  and  vivid- 
colored  ;  shady  fern-forests ;  bunches  of  grapes,  big  as 
those  fabulous  ones  swinging  in  gilt  over  an  ale-house  door, 
or  as  that  mighty  cluster  represented  in  the  illustrations  to 
"  Line  upon  Line,"  as  borne  between  two  stout  Hebrews, 
slung  upon  a  pole;  odorous  rough-skinned  pines.  I  in- 
dulge in  a  pleased  sigh,  and  glance  at  the  carte,  I  draw  a 
slight  mental  sketch  of  what  my  own  share  in  the  banquet 
will  be.  Truely,  one  waxes  gluttonous  in  one's  old  age. 


324  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

Since  then  I  have  been  pervading  such  of  the  ladies' 
rooms  as  intimacy  gives  me  the  entree  to.  I  have  seen 
twelve  passably  fair  maids,  in  twelve  gauzy  bonnets,  each 
with  a  murdered  robin  sitting  on  the  top,  as  a  delicate 
tribute  to  the  season.  Pretty,  and  clean,  and  white,  the 
dozen  look ;  but,  alas  !  they  will  present  but  a  drabby-gray 
appearance  by-and-by  out-of-doors,  when  contrasted  with 
the  wonderful  blinding  snow-sheet.  I  am  not  a  brides- 
maid ;  I  have  not  been  invited,  nor,  if  I  had,  would  I  have 
consented  to  intrude  the  washed-out  pallor  of  my  face 
among  this  plump  pink  rose-garden. 

Now  I  have  returned  to  the  bride-chamber,  where  Syl- 
via, fully  dressed,  and  apparently  laboring  under  some  hal- 
lucination as  to  being  herself  the  bride,  has  usurped  the 
cheval-glass ;  at  least,  on  my  entry,  I  find  a  pretty  little 
figure  in  violet  velvet  and  swansdown,  with  bust  protruded 
and  semi-dislocated  neck,  gyrating  slowly  before  it. 

"  How  extraordinary  one  does  feel  in  colors  !  "  she  is 
ejaculating,  with  a  sort  of  uneasy  complacency;  "but  for 
Lenore's  sake,  nothing  should  have  induced  me.  I  feel 
quite  like  a  fish  out  of  water ;  I  really  can  hardly  believe 
it  is  my  own  face — it  seems  like  some  one  else's.  What  a 
fright  one  does  look,  Jemima  !  " 

No  contradiction  from  me. 

"Does  not  one?" 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so,"  reply  I,  consolingly ;  "  nothing 
out  of  the  way.  I  don't  see  much  difference." 

"  Violet  always  used  to  be  considered  my  color,"  re- 
turns Sylvia,  apparently  finding  my  form  of  comfort  not 
very  palatable ;  "  always,  par  excellence.  How  well  I  re- 
member, the  very  last  ball  I  ever  went  to  with  poor  John 
— I  was  in  violet  lisse,  with  cowslips — overhearing  some 
man  ask,  '  Who  that  lovely  little  woman  in  mauve  was  ? ' 
What  a  rage  I  was  in  ! " 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  325 

"  And  who  was  she  ?  "  ask  I,  with  interest. 

"  Who  was  she  f  "  (reddening.)  "What  stupid  ques- 
tions you  do  ask,  Jemima !  Who  was  she  f  Why  JT,  of 
course." 

"  Mauve  suits  everybody,  even  me,"  say  I,  peeping  over 
Sylvia's  shoulder  at  my  own  unusual  lilac  splendor ;  "  it 
was  well-named  the  '  refuge  of  the  destitute.'  " 

Having  discharged  this  Parthian  shaft,  I  turn  away. 
The  room  is  blocked  with  great  imperials,  packed  and  half- 
packed.  A  whole  haberdasher's  shop  of  finery  is  surging 
out  of  them,  and  a  big  white  L.  S.  on  each  of  their  shiny 
black  lids.  L.  S.  herself  sits  before  the  dressing-table,  but 
— difficult  as  it  is  to  help  it — she  is  not  looking  at  herself 
in  the  glass.  Her  eyes  are  on  the  ground,  and  her  brows 
gathered.  She  is  fully  dressed,  with  the  exception  of  the 
wreath  and  veil — all  dead  white — dead  white,  like  the  doll 
on  the  top  of  a  twelfth-night  cake ;  only  that  the  doll  invari- 
ably compensates  for  the  colorlessness  of  her  attire  by 
cheeks  that  outshine  the  peony,  and  Lenortfs  cheeks  are 
dead  white  too.  To  my  mortification,  I  perceive  that,  in 
spite  of  Worth's  gown,  and  old  Mrs.  Scrope's  Flemish  point, 
my  sister  is  looking  as  little  handsome  as  a  thoroughly 
good-looking  woman  ever  can  look.  Hardly  a  touch  of 
pretty  red  even  on  her  lips,  and  a  pinched  blue  look  of  cold 
and  utter  apathy  about  her  face  and  whole  attitude. 

"If  I  am  to  arrange  your  wreath,"  say  I,  speaking 
sharply,  "  we  had  better  begin ;  there  is  no  use  hurrying, 
and  it  takes  some  time  to  dispose  it  properly." 

She  does  not  move  or  change  her  position. 

"  Will  you  be  good  enough,"  continue  I,  ironically,  "  to 
look  round  and  convince  yourself  that  this  is  not  a  fune- 
ral?" 

Still  no  answer. 

"  Lenore  "  (raising  my  voice),  "  are  you  dead  ?  are  you 


326  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

dumb  ?  are  you  cataleptic  ?  For  Heaven's  sake,  why  do 
you  not  say  something  ?  " 

"  What  should  I  say  ?  "  she  answers  at  length,  raising 
her  heavy  eyes,  and  speaking  with  harsh  irritability,  "  why 
should  I  speak  ?  I  have  only  one  hour  more  of  my  own 
now"  (glancing  with  a  sort  of  tremulous  shudder  toward 
the  clock) ;  "  surely  I  may  spend  it  as  I  like." 

"  That  is  better,"  rejoin  I,  not  heeding  the  matter  of 
her  speech,  but  regarding  her,  with  my  head  on  one  side, 
with  an  artist's  eye.  "  When  you  speak  you  look  ten  per 
cent,  better.  I  must  tell  you  in  confidence  that  as  you 
sat  just  now,  with  your  shoulders  up  to  your  ears  and 
your  nose  resting  on  your  knees,  you  had  a  near  escape  of 
being  that  anomaly  in  Nature,  a  plain  bride." 

No  reply. 

"  For  mercy's  sake,  say  something,"  I  cry,  crossly ;  "  do 
not  lapse  again  into  that  utter  silence !  Dear  me  !  "  (taking 
the  wreath  gingerly  out  of  its  box)  "  how  beautifully  they 
do  make  these  things  nowadays !  But  for  the  scent,  I 
really  think  they  out-do  Nature." 

The  wheels  of  the  first  carriage  become  audible ;  very 
faintly,  by  reason  of  the  snow,  but  still  audible,  and  Syl- 
via, after  one  final  glance,  shuffle,  and  whisk,  swims  out  of 
the  room.  I  become  absorbed  in  an  artistic  agony,  as  I 
throw  the  lace,  in  a  shower  of  costly  flimsiness,  over  my 
sister's  impassive  head,  and  delicately  insinuate  the  chilly 
nuptial  flowers  into  their  resting-place  on  the  top  of  it. 

Carriage  after  carriage  rolls  up  :  doors  are  opened ;  steps 
let  down.  My  curiosity  gets  the  better  of  me.  I  leave 
my  nearly-finished  task,  and,  running  to  the  window,  press 
my  face  against  the  frosted  pane. 

"  The  Websters,"  say  I,  narratively.  "  Ha  !  ha !  ha  ! 
Old  Mrs.  Webster  in  a  twin-gown  to  Sylvia;  even  to 
the  swansdown  on  the  body  and  tunic !  Poor,  dear  Syl- 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  327 

via !  she  will  never  get  over  it ;  it  will  be  the  death  of 
her." 

As  I  stand  there,  laughing  maliciously,  I  feel  a  hand  on 
my  shoulder.  "  What !  are  you  come  to  look  at  them,  too  ? 
Take  care,  they  will  see  you.  It  shows  a  little  want  of 
imagination  in  Mrs.  James  making  two  dresses  pin  for  pin 
alike,  does  not  it  ?  " 

I  turn  toward  her ;  but,  as  soon  as  I  catch  a  glimpse  of 
her  face,  my  mirth  dies,  and  I  utter  a  horrified  ejaculation. 
It  is  lividly  white,  and  she  is  gasping. 

"  Open  it  wide  !  "  she  says,  almost  inaudibly.  "  I — I — 
I  am  stifling !  " 

"  Good  Heavens ! "  cry  I,  apprehensively  and  dissuasive- 
ly,  with  my  usual  practical  grasp  of  a  subject.  "  You  are 
not  going  to  faint  ?  Do  not ! — not  till  I  get  you  a  chair. 
You  are  so  heavy — I  never  could  hold  you  up." 

As  I  speak  I  am  struggling  with  the  hasp  of  the  win- 
dow, which  is  old,  rusty,  and  evidently  constructed  with  a 
view  to  never  opening  except  after  ten  minutes'  of  angry 
wrestling. 

"  Quick  !  quick  ! "  she  says,  faintly  panting,  "  wider  ! 
wider!" 

But  it  is  too  late.  As  the  frozen  casement  grates  slow- 
ly on  its  hinges,  her  head,  with  all  its  smart  paraphernalia 
of  lace  and  flowers,  falls  back  lifeless,  and  the  whole  weight 
of  her  body,  in  all  the  leaden  inertness  of  Death's  counter- 
feit, rests  in  my  strained  arms.  No  one  knows,  until  they 
have  tried  it,  how  heavy  dead  and  swooned  persons  are.  I 
stagger  under  my  sister's  weight,  and  with  much  difficulty, 
and  many  bumps  both  to  her  and  myself,  get  her  down  on 
the  floor,  where  the  little  icy  airs  come  and  ruffle  her  use- 
less laces  and  her  soft  tossed  locks.  Then  I  fly  to  the  bell, 
open  the  door,  and  call  mightily  down  the  passage. 
"  Louise  ! "  I  cry,  "  Louise  !  "  as  Sylvia's  French  maid 


328  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

comes  floating  airily  along — not  in  the  least  hurrying  her- 
self, but  rather  throwing  gallantries  over  her  shoulder,  as 
it  were,  to  a  strange  valet  in  the  middle  distance.  "  Louise  ! 
Louise !  Make  haste  !  Mademoiselle  Lenore  is  so  ill !  I 
do  not  know  what  has  happened  to  her ! — all  of  a  sudden, 
too  ! — she  has  fainted,  I  think ;  I  suppose  it  is  a  faint,  is  not 
it "  (looking  nervously  in  her  face),  "  not  any  thing  worse  f  " 

Louise  gives  a  little  yell,  and  says  "  My  God ! "  in  her 
mother-tongue,  in  which  flippant  language  that  adjuration 
does  not  sound  half  so  solemn.  Then  we  kneel  down,  one 
on  each  side  of  her,  sprinkle  water  in  her  face,  considerably 
to  the  injury  of  her  tucker — pour  brandy  down  her  uncon- 
scious throat — hold  strong  smelling-salts  to  her  nostrils — 
roughly  chafe  her  dead  hands — use  all  the  unpleasant  as- 
perities, in  fact,  that  are  supposed  necessary  to  induce  peo- 
ple to  come  back  to  that  life  which,  as  a  rule,  they  are  so 
loath  to  quit.  But  it  is  all  to  no  purpose :  she  shows  no 
sign  of  returning  consciousness. 

"  I  do  not  half  like  it,"  I  say,  looking  apprehensively 
across  at  my  coadjutor,  and  speaking  in  an  unintentional 
whisper.  "  I  have  not  a  notion  what  to  do  next !  Run, 
Louise,  and  tell  John  to  go  as  quickly  as  he  can  for  Dr. 
Riley — and — and — I  do  not  like  being  left  here  by  myself 
with  her — send  Mrs.  Prodgers." 

"  What  do  you  want  with  me  ?  "  cries  Sylvia,  pettishly, 
coming  fussing  in  a  minute  or  two  later ;  evidently  in  com- 
plete ignorance  of  the  errand  on  which  I  have  sent  for  her. 
"  I  wish  you  would  not  send  such  mysterious  messages. 
I  am  so  nervous  already  that  I  do  not  know  what  to  do 
with  myself !  I  declare,  just  now,  when  Lord  Sligo  was 

talking  to  me,  I  had  no  more  idea  what  he  was  saying 

Good  God!"  (catching  sight  of  Lenore's  stiff  prostrate 
white  figure),  "  what  has  happened  ?  What  has  she  done 
to  herself  now  ?  " 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS. 


"  She  has  fainted,"  repeat  I,  briefly,  "  all  of  a  sudden, 
before  I  could  look  round ;  and  we  cannot  bring  her  to." 

"  Good  gracious,  how  dreadful !  "  cries  Sylvia,  kneeling 
daintily  down  on  the  floor,  too ;  not,  however,  before  she 
had  plucked  up  her  violet-velvet  skirts.  "  What  does  one 
do  when  people  faint  ? — put  cold  keys  down  their  backs — 
cut  their  stay-laces — hold  looking-glasses  before  their 
mouths — oh,  no,  of  course,  that  is  to  see  whether  they  are 
— Heavens,  Jemima  ! "  (her  face  blanching)  "  you  do  not 
think  she  is — " 

Mrs.  Prodgers  has  an  inveterate  aversion  for  pronoun- 
cing the  little  four-lettered  word,  that,  in  its  plain  short- 
ness, expresses  the  destiny  of  the  nations. 

"  Nonsense  !  "  cry  I,  angrily,  again  seizing  the  salts,  and 
futilely  holding  them  to  her  nose. 

"  Feel  whether  her  heart  beats."  says  Sylvia,  looking 
very  white,  breathing  rather  short,  and  speaking  in  an  awed 
whisper.  "  I  am  afraid  to  do  it  myself — I  dare  not ! — you 
are  feeling  the  wrong  side,  are  not  you  ? — they  say  it  is 
nearly  in  the  middle." 

Complying  with  these  anatomical  instructions,  I  feel. 
Yes,  it  beats.  Life's  little  hammer  is  still  knocking  feebly 
against  its  neighbor  ribs. 

"  She  will  be  all  right,  just  now,  of  course  ;  it  is  only 
that  we  are  not  used  to  this  sort  of  thing.  I  never  was 
the  least  frightened  myself, "  say  I,  doughtily,  but  not  alto- 
gether truly. 

"  I  wish  her  eyes  were  quite  shut,"  says  Sylvia,  peering 
into  Lenore's  swooned  face  with  the  horrified  curiosity  of  a 
child  ;  "  they  look  so  dreadful,  showing  a  bit  of  the  pupil." 

"  The  wedding  will  have  to  be  put  off,  of  course,"  say 
I,  rising,  and  walking  toward  the  clock ;  "  half-past  eleven 
now ;  it  is  very  certain  that  she  will  not  be  well  enough  to 
be  married  before  twelve." 


830  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

"  But  the  people !  "  cries  my  sister,  squatting  in  a  dis- 
mayed purple  heap  on  the  floor,  for  the  moment  utterly 
oblivious  of  nervousness,  swansdown,  or  even  of  the  apt- 
ness of  velvet  to  crease  unless  sat  upon  straight.  "  They 
are  all  come ;  everybody  is  dressed  ;  most  of  them  are  al- 
ready at  the  church ;  the  bishop  has  been  there  half  an 
hour." 

I  shake  my  head.     "  It  cannot  be  helped." 

"  And  the  breakfast !  "  cries  Mrs.  Prodgers,  as  a  fresh 
and  worse  aspect  of  the  calamity  presents  itself  to  her 
mind.  "  Of  course,  the  cold  things  do  not  matter ;  they 
will  be  as  good  to-morrow  or  the  day  after  as  to-day  ;  but 
the  soups,  the  entrees!" 

I  stifle  a  sigh.  "  There  is  no  good  in  talking  of  it,"  I 
say,  with  forced  philosophy.  "  You  had  better  go  at  once 
and  send  them  all  away ;  there  is  no  use  in  keeping  them 
waiting  in  the  cold.  Charlie,  too  "  (with  an  accent  of  com- 
passion) ;  "  poor  boy !  what  a  bitter  disappointment  it  will 
be  to  him  !  " 

"As  to  that,"  says  Sophia,  with  a  slight  relapse  into 
the  preening  and  Pouter-pigeon  mood,  "  I  do  not  suppose 
that  a  day's  delay  will  kill  him ;  men  are  often  not  sorry 
for  a  little  reprieve  in  these  cases.  I  am  sure  no  one  can 
feel  more  thoroughly  upset  than  I  do ;  if  I  were  to  fol- 
low my  own  inclinations,  I  should  sit  down  and  have  a 
good  cry." 

"  Do  not  follow  them,  then,"  I  say,  brusquely ;  "  or,  at 
least,  send  the  guests  away  first,  and  cry  as  much  as  you 
please  afterward." 

By  the  aid  of  Louise,  and  with  many  appeals  on  her 
part  to  the  French  God,  sides,  and  Virgin,  I,  heavily  and 
with  difficulty,  lift  Lenore  on  to  the  bed.  Hours  have 
passed,  the  doctor  has  come,  Sylvia  has  resumed  her  black 
gown  and  giant  rosary,  the  last  carriage  has  rolled  away 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SATS.  331 

with  snowy  wheels,  before  Lenore  lifts  the  quivering  white 
of  her  lids,  and  looks  round  upon  us  languidly,  one  after 
another.  There  are  only  three  of  us — the  elderly  doctor, 
to  whom,  from  our  earliest  infancy,  we  have  been  in  the 
habit  of  exhibiting  our  tongues  and  pulses ;  I,  who  am  no- 
body ;  and,  thirdly,  a  poor  young  man  in  a  smart  blue  coat, 
with  a  kind,  miserable,  beautiful  face,  who  has  spent  the 
last  three  hours  and  a  half  in  clasping  and  kissing  a  limp, 
white  hand,  which,  had  its  owner  been  possessed  of  con- 
sciousness, would  hardly  have  lain  with  such  passive  weak- 
ness in  his  fond  grasp.  As  her  eyes  open,  he  springs  up 
joyfully  to  his  feet,  and  bends  over  her.  I  do  the  same. 
With  a  faint  gesture  of  distaste  she  turns  away  from  him 
to  me,  and  speaks  in  a  weak  whisper : 

"  I — I — I  am  at  home,  am  I  not  ?  " 

"  At  home  ?    Yes,  to  be  sure." 

"  I — I — I  am  not  married  f  " 

"  No ;  not  yet." 

"  I  am  so  glad ! " 

Soon  afterward  she  relapses  into  unconsciousness.  All 
that  day,  and  most  of  the  following  night,  she  lies  like  a 
plucked  snow-drop  in  January's  sleety  lap,  reviving  from 
one  swoon  only  to  fall  into  another.  Toward  midnight  she 
grows  better,  and  sinks  into  a  natural  and  healthy  sleep. 

"  I  wish  you  would  change  your  clothes,"  I  say  to 
Charlie,  in  a  whisper,  as  we  stand  staring  at  her  with 
shaded  light;  "they  look  such  a  mockery"  (touching  the 
fine  blue  broadcloth).  "  Your  poor  bouquet,  too." 

"  Not  a  very  good  omen,  is  it  ?  "  he  says,  with  a  melan- 
choly smile,  lifting  with  his  finger  the  drooped  and  yellowed 
head  of  his  gardenia.  "  Bah  !  who  cares  for  omens  ?  Only 
old  women  ?  " 

"  Only  old  women,"  repeat  I,  mechanically. 

"  She  was  not  well  last  night"  he  continues,  eagerly, 


332  "QOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  was  she  ?  I  told  you  she  was  not ;  it  accounts  for  her 
talking  so  oddly,  does  not  it  ?  It  shows  "  (peering  anx- 
iously into  my  face)  "  that  she  did  not  mean  any  of  the 
things  she  said,  does  not  it  ?  " 

I  say  "  Of  course,"  in  a  constrained  voice,  and  try  to 
turn  away. 

"  Stay,"  he  says,  laying  his  broad  hand  on  my  shoulder, 
"  do  not  go ;  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  I  say,  she  was  not 
quite  herself  when  she  woke  up  first,  was  she  ? — did  not 
know  what  she  was  saying — meant  nothing  ?  " 

I  know  that  I  am  lying,  but  I  answer :  "  Oh,  dear,  no  ! 
of  course  not !  " 

"  Was  it  my  fancy  ?  "  continues  he,  with  a  painful  red 
spreading  even  to  his  forehead ;  "  one  gets  odd  notions — 
and  these  damned  candles  "  (striking  one  viciously  with 
his  fore-finger)  "  cast  such  deceptive  shadows  —  but  it 
seemed  to  me,  Jemima,  that  she  turned  away  from  me — as 
if — she  had  rather  not  look  at  me.  Did  not  she  like  my 
being  here,  do  you  think?  She  is  so — so — maidenly ; 
she  thought  I  ought  to  have  stayed  outside  ?  " 

"  Nonsense,"  say  I,  shortly.  "  It  is  evident  that  you 
have  never  fainted ;  you  do  not  understand  how  slow  peo- 
ple's wits  are  in  coming  back.  I  do  not  suppose  that  she 
knew  you  from  me,  or  me  from  the  doctor." 

He  does  not  answer.  I  can  hardly  expect  my  logic  to 
be  very  convincing,  seeing  that  it  has  not  convinced  my- 
self. 

"  Riley  is  not  in  the  least  surprised  at  this,"  I  say,  nod- 
ding slightly  toward  our  patient.  "When  I  told  him 
about  her  not  eating  and  not  sleeping — it  is  my  belief  that 
she  has  not  closed  an  eye  for  the  last  fortnight — he  said 
that  the  only  wonder  was,  that  it  had  not  happened  be- 
fore." 

"  Jemima,"  says  the  young  fellow,  turning  me  uncere- 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  333 

moniously  round  so  as  to  face  him,  while  his  eyes,  in  their 
searching  truth,  go  through  mine  like  swords ;  "  tell  me — 
I  wish  to  know — what  is  it  that  has  taken  away  her  sleep 
and  her  appetite  ?  Is  it  If  " 

It  is  not,  as  I  am  well  aware,  but  I  maintain  a  stupid 
silence. 

"  Do  not  answer  me,"  he  says,  with  a  sudden  change  of 
mood,  pushing  me  away  from  him.  "  I  do  not  want  an 
answer ;  it  was  an  idiotic  question  ;  this  fuss  and  bustle 
have  been  too  much  for  her,  have  not  they  ?  and  the  harcl 
weather  has  tried  her.  She  will  be  all  right  again  when 
once  we  get  quietly  off,  will  not  she  ?  Jemima — I  say, 
Jemima — do  you  think  there  is  a  chance  of  our  being  able 
to  have  it  to-morrow  ?  " 

I  shake  my  head.     "  I  doubt  it." 

"  The  day  after,  then  ?  "  (very  wistfully). 

I  have  not  the  assurance  to  say  "  Yes,"  and  I  have  not 
the  heart  to  say  "  No ; "  so  I  say,  "  We  will  see." 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

"WHAT     THE     AUTHOR     SATS. 

ALL  the  next  day  Lenore  lies  in  bed,  weak  and  white — 
it  does  not  take  much  to  pull  her  down — and,  for  the  most 
part,  silent.  She  asks  for  no  one ;  expresses  neither  re- 
grets nor  self-congratulations  on  the  subject  of  her  defer- 
red wedding — lies  with  her  face,  gentle  and  innocent  as 
any  saintly  martyr's — what  falsehoods  faces  do  tell ! — on 
the  pillow,  crowned  by  a  bright,  brown  glory  of  hair — an 
aureole  given  her  by  Nature,  not  martyrdom.  She  is  not 
ill,  neither  well ;  very  still,  and  only  turning  restive  under 


334  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

doses  of  brandied  beef-tea,  repeated  ad  nauseam.  There  are 
few  of  the  minor  diseases  that  are  worse  than  beef-tea  and 
brandy.  The  following  day  passes  in  much  the  same  way; 
but,  on  the  third  morning,  Jemima  enters  cheerfully : 

"  Biley  says  you  may  get  up." 

The  communication  does  not  seem  to  afford  much  satis- 
faction to  the  person  to  whom  it  is  addressed.  She  turns 
her  face  away  with  a  pettish  jerk,  and  hides  it  in  the  pil- 
low. 

"  He  says  you  may  dress  and  come  down  as  soon  as 
you  like." 

"  As  soon  as  I  like  ? "  repeats  Lenore,  ironically ; 
"  that  would  be  a  long  time  off.  Why  may  not  I  stay 
here?"— (stretching  out  her  arms  lazily).  "  I  am  happy. 
I  like  to  lie  here  all  day  long ;  the  noises  of  the  house 
seem  so  far  off,  and  your  footsteps  outside  sound  so  gently. 
I  like  to  listen  to  the  clocks,  one  after  another,  and  count 
them  as  they  strike.  I  feel  nothing — I  think  of  nothing. 
I  have  not  been  so  happy  for  years." 

"  He  says  that  staying  in  bed  is  very  weakening." 

"  Then  I  like  being  weakened." 

"  Nonsense  !     Please  talk  like  a  rational  being." 

Never  was  toilet  more  slowly  made  than  Lenore's — 
partly  from  weakness — for  her  illness,  though  brief,  has 
told  upon  her;  partly  from  a  deep  and  innate  unwilling- 
ness to  return  to  the  well  and  work-a-day  world.  At 
length  there  is  no  evading  the  fact  that  she  is  fully  dressed ; 
not  only  fully  dressed,  but  established  in  an  arm-chair  be- 
fore Sylvia's  boudoir-fire:  a  banner-screen  between  her 
face  and  the  flame  ;  novels,  work-boxes,  point-lace,  a  pug — 
every  thing  that  is  necessary  to  make  a  rational  woman's 
happiness — within  easy  reach  of  her  hands.  There  is  one 
other  addition,  without  which,  many  rational  women  think 
happiness  incomplete — a  lover ;  and  even  he  is  not  far  off. 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  335 

As  a  man's  heavy  step  sounds  muffled  along  the  carpeted 
passage,  as  a  man's  fingers  close  on  the  door-handle,  Lenore 
turns  her  head  resolutely  to  the  other  side — like  a  child 
averting  its  face  from  the  inevitable  rhubarb  and  magnesia 
— and  rests  her  cheek  on  the  back  of  her  chair. 

He  enters  softly,  and,  afraid  even  of  breathing  over 
noisily,  imagining  she  is  asleep,  stoops  his  waved  gold 
head  over  her.  He  is  soon  undeceived. 

"  I  wish,"  she  says,  in  a  most  wide-awake  voice,  open- 
ing her  beautiful,  petulant  eyes  full  upon  him,  "  that  you 
would  not  come  creeping  in,  in  that  creaky,  tiptoe  way; 
nothing  in  the  world  fidgets  me  so  much." 

He  starts  upright  again  in  a  hurry. 

"It  was  a  stupid  trick,"  he  says,  humbly,  and  then 
stops  suddenly,  afraid  of  rousing  livelier  wrath  by  further 
speech.  As  for  her,  she  rolls  her  pretty,  pettish  head  from 
side  to  side,  and  affects  not  to  see  him.  He  grows  tired, 
at  last,  of  standing  with  his  back  to  the  mantel-shelf,  silent, 
and  says,  with  eager  tenderness,  but  in  a  rather  frightened 
voice : 

"You  are  better?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  better,"  she  answers,  quickly ;  "  at  least,  so 
they  say;  but  I  am  still  far  from  well — very  far;  it  will  be 
long  enough  before  I  am  strong  again,  and — and — and  up 
to  any  thing." 

"  Riley  says  that  there  is  nothing  like — like  change  of 
air  "  (reddening  guiltily). 

"  Riley  is  an  old  woman  !  "  (reddening  too). 

"  Lenore ! "  throwing  himself  down  on  his  knees,  on  the 
rug  beside  her,  and,  in  so  doing,  giving  an  unconscious 
buffet  to  the  pug's  black  face,  who  forthwith  departs  howl- 
ing, unheeded,  and  with  his  tail  uncurled.  "  Lenore  !  why 
need  we  have  half  the  county  to  see  us  married  ?  Why 
need  we  put  on  smart  clothes  ?  Why  cannot  you  come 


336  "  GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!  " 

quietly  to  church  with  me  to-morrow,  in  your  common  bon- 
net and  shawl "  (Scrope  is  unaware  that  shawls  are,  for  the 
moment,  extinct),  "with  only  the  clerk  to  say  '  Amen  ? ' ' 

"Where  is  the  hurry?"  she  asks,  tapping  her  foot 
impatiently  on  the  fender.  "  You  talk  as  if  we  were  two 
old  people,  each  with  a  leg  in  the  grave.  Supposing  that 
we  put  it  off  for  a  year,  we  should  still  probably  have  fifty 
to  gape  opposite  each  other  in." 

"  Even  if  we  were  sure  of  the  fifty,"  he  says,  gently, 
"  I  should  still  grudge  the  one ;  can  one  be  too  long  hap- 
py ?  I  never  heard  any  one  complain  of  being  so." 

"  Do  you  like  sickly  women  ?  "  she  says,  abruptly,  ap- 
parently half  softened  by  his  tone,  and  looking  amicably  at 
him.  "  I  think  I  am  radically  sickly — see  how  half  a  day 
has  pulled  me  down — my  elbows  stick  out  like  promon- 
tories "  (pulling  up  her  sleeve  to  show  him) — "  if  you 
married  me  you  would  have  to  be  always  cosseting  me — 
trundling  me  about  in  a  bath-chair,  and  measuring  out 
physic  in  a  spoon  for  me." 

He  is  about  to  burst  into  a  storm  of  protestations,  but 
she  interrupts  him. 

"  Do  you  know  what  Jemima  said,  that  day,  when  I  told 
her  I  was  going  to  marry  you  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Well,  she  said  it  was  indecently  soon." 

"  I  do  not  see  what  business  it  was  of  Jemima's,"  says 
the  young  man,  looking  rather  surly. 

"  Neither  do  I ;  but  all  the  same  it  is  true — indecently 
soon — that  is  the  very  word  that  expresses  it."  As  she 
speaks,  her  face  becomes  spread  with  a  hot  blush,  and  his 
own  is  not  slow  to  repeat  it  in  the  deeper  colors  of  man- 
hood. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?  "  he  asks,  rising  to  his  feet, 
while  a  look  of  utter  fear  makes  the  red  in  his  cheeks  give 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  337 

way.  "  What  is  this  the  preface  to  ?  Is  it  indecently 
sooner  than  it  was  yesterday,  or  the  day  before,  or  the  day 
before  that  ?  " 

"  Do  not  be  angry,"  she  says,  deprecatingly,  stretching 
out  her  hand  on  which  his  own  diamonds  are  flashing. 
"  You  know  you  are  always  reasonable — you  always  mind 
what  I  say,  even  when  it  is  not  reasonable  ;  that  is  why  I 
like  you." 

There  is  something  of  the  turkey-cock  about  every  wom- 
an ;  gobbling  and  swelling  if  a  man  is  frightened  and  runs ; 
small  and  silent  if  he  stands  still  and  cries  "  Shoo !  "  It  is 
his  turn  now ;  there  is  no  use  in  gobbling  at  him  ;  he  af- 
fects not  to  see  her  hand,  and  only  says  briefly,  "  Go  on." 

"  You  know,"  she  says,  sitting  upright  in  her  chair  and 
straining  her  neck  backward,  so  that  her  eyes  may  attain 
his  face  and  watch  it,  "  that  I  proposed  to  you — it  is  not 
a  sort  of  thing  that  a  man  would  be  likely  to  forget.  I  try 
to  think  of  it  as  little  as  possible,  but  it  is  true  ;  and  you 
accepted  me ;  I  suppose  "  (laughing  awkwardly)  "  that 
you  could  not  well  have  been  so  uncivil  as  to  do  other- 
wise." 

"Goon." 

"Well"  (fidgeting  uneasily),  "I  mean  to  marry  you  still 
— -fully — but — but — it  must  be — not  just  yet — not  now  ;  a 
year — six  months  hence,  perhaps — instead." 

Unwilling  to  witness  the  effect  of  her  words,  she  has 
dropped  her  eyes  at  the  last  clause  ;  but,  as  the  moments 
pass,  and  no  sound  comes,  save  that  of  a  cinder  falling 
from  the  grate,  she  looks  up  again. 

"  Have  you  no  tongue  ?  "  she  says,  irritably  ;  "  are  you 
never  going  to  speak  ?  " 

"  A.  year  hence !  "  he  says,  in  a  low  voice,  turning  a 
face,  white  as  the  face  of  the  uncolored  dead,  toward  her. 
"  That  means  never.  Thank  you  for  leading  me  so  gently 
15 


838  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

up  to  it.  Do  you  think  I  do  not  see  what  you  are  aiming 
at  ?  Do  you  think  I  have  not  watched  it  coming  during 
the  last  fortnight  ?  I  have  prayed  not  to  see  "  (striking 
his  hands  together).  "  I  have  entreated  God  to  let  me  be 
blind  always.  Good  God  !  "  (flinging  his  arms  down  on 
the  chimney-piece,  and  hiding  his  face  on  them)  "  how  do 
men  bear  these  things  ?  Who  can  teach  me  ?  " 

"  Bear  what  ?  "  she  cries,  rising  hastily  to  her  feet  and 
putting  herjiand  on  his  coat-sleeve.  "What  are  you  talk- 
ing about  ?  What  is  there  to  bear  ?  " 

"  So  you  have  been  tricking  me  all  this  time,  have 
you  ?  "  he  says,  raising  his  ruffled  head  and  looking  delib- 
erately at  her,  with  a  resentful  calm  in  face  and  voice. 
"  At  least,  it  can  hardly  be  called  trickery :  it  was  so 
lamely  done,  a  child  might  have  seen  through  the  decep- 
tion. 

Silence. 

"  Of  course  you  know  best "  (in  the  same  polite,  cold 
tone)  ;  "  but  would  it  not  have  been  simpler,  and  come  to 
much  the  same  thing  in  the  end,  to  have  left  me  alone  in 
the  first  instance  ?  " 

Left  him  alone!  The  very  question,  in  almost  the 
same  words,  that  Paul  had  once  asked. 

"  I  had  gone  clean  away,"  he  continues,  in  the  same  re- 
pressed and  sedulously  quiet  voice.  "  Your  polite  speeches 
had  effectually  rid  you  of  me.  A  man  would  not  willingly 
listen  twice  to  some  of  the  compliments  you  paid  me  at 
that  ball.  I  had  no  intention  of  coming  back ;  why  did 
you  send  for  me  ?  " 

Still  no  answer,  no  attempted  defence. 

"  I  can  at  least "  (with  a  bitter  smile,  that  sits  ill  on 
his  fair,  smooth  face)  "  pay  you  the  compliment  of  saying 
that  you  are  not  a  good  liar.  You  are  not  apt  at  the  trade  ; 
you  bungle.  Every  day,  and  fifty  times  a  day,  your  mouth 


WE  AT  TEE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  339 

has  said  to  me,  £  I  like  you — you  are  a  good  fellow — we 
shall  be  happy  together ; '  and  every  da}7,  and  fifty  times  a 
day,  your  eyes  and  every  movement  of  your  body  have 
said,  '  I  loathe  you.  I  can  hardly  bring  myself  to  speak 
civilly  to  you.' " 

Still  silence. 

"  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  "  (taking  her  by  both  slender 
wrists)  "  to  make  a  rough  calculation  of  how  many  false- 
hoods you  have  told  me  during  this  last  month  ?  " 

"  Stop  ! "  she  cries,  wrenching  away  her  hands  from  his 
grasp,  which  has  more  of  the  jailer  than  the  lover  in  it. 
"  Stop  !  you  are  very  bitter  to  me — very.  I  can  hardly 
believe  that  it  is  you ;  but  you  speak  truth.  I  have  told 
you  many,  many  lies,  but  at  least  I  have  told  them  to  my- 
self too.  I  have  said  them  over  and  over  again,  in  the 
hope  that  they  would  come  true  at  last." 

He  smiles  a  dry  smile  of  utter  incredulity. 

"That  was  very  probable." 

"  You  do  not  believe  me  ? "  she  says,  passionately. 
"  Well,  I  take  God  to  witness — you  will  hardly  disbelieve 
me  now — that  ever  since  that  day  in  the  library,  when  I 
thrust  myself  so  immodestly  on  you"  (she  is  crimsoner 
than  any  closed  daisy's  petals  at  the  words),  "I  have 
longed  and  striven  with  all  my  heart  and  soul  and  strength 
to — to — care  for  you — as — as — you  wish  to  be  cared  for." 

"Well?" 

"I  have  said  over  and  over  to  myself  all  your  good 
qualities,  like  a  lesson.  I  have  tried "  (her  face  contracts 
with  an  agony  of  shame)  "  to  wrench  away  all  the  love  I 
ever  had  to  give  from — the — the  person  who  once  had  it, 
and  to  give  it  to  you  instead." 

"Well?" 

"  Sometimes,  when  I  was  away  from  you,  I  thought  I 
had  succeeded ;  but  when  you  came  near  me,  when  you 


340  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

touched  me,  good  and  kind  and  handsome  as  you  are — " 
She  stops  abruptly. 

"  Go  on,"  he  says,  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "  Do  not  let 
any  consideration  for  my  feeling  stop  you ;  it  would  not 
be  you  if  you  did — good  and  kind  and  handsome  as  I 
am — »  (ironically  repeating  her  words). 

"  It  was  too  soon — too  soon  !  "  she  cries,  clasping  her 
hands  in  deep  excitement,  while  the  large  scalding  tears 
drop  hotly  over  her  cheeks.  "  Jemima  was  right — it  was 
indecently  soon.  In  the  grief  and  shame  of  being  so  treat- 
ed, I  wonder,  Charlie"  (smiling  painfully)  "that  you  are 
so  anxious  to  marry  a  jilted  woman.  I  thought  I  could  for- 
get all  in  a  minute,  but  I  cannot ;  nobody  could.  If  I  were 
to  go  away  to-day,  and  throw  you  over  forever,  could  you 
forget  me  all  in  a  minute  ?  " 

"I  would  try  my  best,"  he  says,  with  a  fierce  white 
smile.  "Perhaps  it  would  be  more  correct  to  say,  'I  will 
try  my  best.' " 

"  Do  you  think  I  do  not  wish  to  forget  ?  "  she  says, 
taking  his  hand  of  her  own  accord,  while  her  wet  eyes 
gaze  wistfully  upward,  into  the  deep,  angry  blue  of  his. 
"  Do  you  think  I  remember  on  purpose  f  Does  one  enjoy 
not  sleeping  and  not  eating,  and  being  in  miserable,  un- 
easy pain  all  day  and  all  night  ?  " 

He  keeps  silence. 

"  I  am  no  great  prize  at  the  best  of  times,"  she  says, 
half  sobbing.  "  My  sisters — all  my  people — will  tell  you 
that;  but  what  sort  of  woman  should  I  have  been  if  I 
could  have  jumped  straight  out  of  one  man's  arms  into  an- 
other's, quite  easily  and  comfortably,  without  feeling  any 
shame  ?  It  was  bad  enough  to  be  able  to  do  it  at  all.  O 
Charlie !  Charlie !  knowing  what  you  did  about  me,  how 
could  you  think  me  worth  taking  ?  How  could  you  take 
me?" 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SATS.  341 

"  How  could  I  taJce  you  ?  "  he  says,  with  a  harsh,  low 
laugh,  as  unlike  the  jocund  sound  of  his  usual  boyish  mirth 
as  possible.  "  Do  not  you  know  that,  when  a  man  is  starv- 
ing, he  is  not  particular  as  to  having  a  whole  loaf  ?  He 
says  *  thank  you'  even  for  crumbs.  I  tell  you,  Lenore, 
that  morning  in  Ireland,  when  I  got  your  note,  I  had  as 
little  hope  of  ever  holding  you  in  my  arms  as  my  wife,  as  I 
had  of  holding  one  of  God's  angels.  Wnen  I  found  that 
there  was  a  chance  of  my  so  holding  you,  judge  whether  I 
was  likely  to  throw  it  away." 

He  has  put  one  of  his  hands  on  each  of  her  shoulders, 
and  stands  gazing  steadfastly  at  her,  with  a  bitter  yearn- 
ing in  his  eyes. 

"  I  knew  that  your  soul  was  out  of  my  reach,"  he  con- 
tinues, sadly ;  "  that  I  should  get  only  your  body,  and 
even  that  shrank  away  from  me.  Shall  I  ever  forget  those 
first  two  kisses  that  you  gave  me — that  I  made  you  give 
me  ?  They  were  colder  than  ice." 

A  little  pause.  The  fire-flame  quivers  and  talks  to 
itself ;  the  pug  plucks  up  heart  again,  and,  returning,  lies 
down,  with  his  nose  resting  on  his  bowed  forelegs. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  all  for  the  best,"  says  Scrope,  pres- 
ently, with  a  forced  smile ;  "  at  least,  it  is  as  well  to  say  so, 
is  not  it  ?  I  was  so  idiotically  fond  of  you  that,  if  you  had 
been  decently  civil  to  me,  I  suppose  I  should  have  been 
happier  than  any  man  can  be  and  live." 

No  answer. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  resumes,  in  a  tone  of  deep  and 
sombre  excitement,  "  what  has  kept  me  up  all  this  month, 
what  has  hindered  me  from  cutting  my  own  throat  or  yours 
— it  was  a  toss-up  which — what  has  made  me  smile  and 
seem  pleased  at  words  that  bit  and  looks  that  stung  f 
Well,  I  will  tell  you — listen,  and  laugh  if  it  amuses  you ; 
it  is  true,  all  the  same.  I  Jcnew "  (lifting  his  hands  from 


342  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

her  shoulders,  and  framing  her  drooped  face  with  them) — 
"  I  knew  that,  if  once  I  could  get  you  all  to  myself,  I  could 
make  you  love  me ;  you  would  do  your  best  to  thwart  and 
hinder  me,  but  I  could  maJte  you.  Lenore,  I  know  it 
still." 

"  Do  you  ?  "  she  says,  sadly.  "  I  wish  you  could ;  but  I 
doubt  it." 

"  Tell  me,"  cries  the  young  fellow,  emboldened  by  her 
gentleness  to  take  her  once  more  in  his  arms,  as  if  she  were 
his  own — "  it  will  do  me  no  good  to  hear — be  tantalizing, 
rather — but  still  I  think  it  would  ease  my  pain  a  little — 
tell  me,  if  you  had  met  me  first — met  me  before  you  came 
across  him — do  you  think  you  could  have  liked  me  a  little 
then  ?  Say  c  yes,'  if  you  can,  Lenore  "  (with  a  suffering 
accent  of  entreaty). 

"How  do  I  know?"  she  says,  sharply,  for  once  not 
shrinking  from  his  contact — not  struggling  in  his  embrace, 
but  rather  coldly  taking  it  for  granted.  "  What  is  the  good 
of  looking  back  ?  It  seems  to  me  now  that,  if  I  had  not 
met  Mm,  I  should  have  gone  on  always,  as  I  had  gone  on 
before,  laughing  and  amusing  myself,  and  being  happy  in 
my  way,  and  not  loving  anybody  much.  I  never  was  one 
to  fall  in  love  easily — never ! "  (drawing  herself  up  with  a 
little  movement  of  pride). 

"  You  fell  in  love  with  him  easily  enough,"  says  Scrope, 
roughly. 

"  Yes,"  she  answers,  almost  humbly,  though  her  face 
flames,  "  you  are  right,  so  I  did ;  it  was  a  boast  I  had  no 
right  to  make." 

"  What  on  earth  made  you  do  it  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?  Perversity,  I  think  ;  I  always  was 
perverse  from  a  child ;  they  said  I  should  pay  for  it,  sooner 
or  later.  I  think  I  have  now,  have  not  I  ?  "  (smiling  drear- 
ily). A  moment's  pause.  "  Other  people  cared  for  me  of 


WHAT  TEE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  343 

their  own  accord,"  she  continues,  sighing ;  "  as  for  him,  al- 
most every  word  I  said  grated  upon  him ;  I  had  to  fight 
and  battle  even  for  his  toleration." 

"  And  that  pleased  you  ?  " 

"  Does  one  ever  care  for  the  things  that  one  can  stretch 
out  one's  hand  and  take  ?  "  she  asks,  bitterly.  "  I  do  not, 
neither  do  you — that  is  evident,  or  you  would  not  be  here." 
After  a  little  pause  :  "  He  thought  very  meanly  of  me  from 
the  first — very.  He  almost  told  me  so  in  so  many  words, 
and  I — I — well— I  only  meant  to  make  him  alter  his  mind ; 
that  was  how  it  began.  Bah !  "  (breaking  off  suddenly, 
with  a  tempest  of  angry  pain  in  her  voice),  "what  does  it 
matter  how  it  began  ?  Is  not  it  enough  that  it  did  begin, 
that  it  went  on,  and  that  now  it  is  ended?  " 

At  the  last  word  her  raised  voice  sinks  down,  and  dies 
in  a  sob.  His  hold  upon  her  grows  lax,  he  gives  a  long 
sigh  of  astonished,  indignant  grief. 

"  If  that  was  the  way  to  your  heart,"  he  says,  with  a 
sort  of  scorn,  "  no  wonder  I  missed  it."  Silence.  "  Merci- 
ful Heavens  ! "  cries  the  young  man,  smiting  his  hands  to- 
gether in  a  sort  of  wondering  frenzy,  "  did  one  ever  hear 
the  like  ?  Must  one  hold  you  cheap,  and  have  the  ill  man- 
ners to  tell  you  so ;  must  one  cut  you  to  the  heart  with 
frosty  looks  and  words  that  stab  like  your  own ;  must  one 
love  you  tardily  and  leave  you  readily,  before  you  will  give 
one  your  affection  ?  If  so,  Lenore,  I  tell  you  candidly  that 
— stark,  staring  mad  about  you  as  I  have  been  for  the  last 
six  months — I  tell  you  candidly  that  I  had  rather  be  with- 
out it." 

"  You  are  right,"  she  says,  coldly ;  "  it  is  not  worth 
having.  After  all,  you  agree  with  him ;  he  thought  it  was 
not  worth  having,  and  so  threw  it  away." 

The  moments  flash  past ;  the  little  moments,  that  tarry 
not  to  listen  to  brisk  wedding  chimes,  or  the  slow  passing- 


344  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

bell.  The  two  young  people  still  stand  opposite  one  an- 
other, each  buried  in  thoughts,  whereof  it  would  be  hard 
to  say  whose  share  was  the  bitterer.  Scrope  is  the  first  to 
break  the  silence  that  has  fallen  on  them. 

"  Tell  me,  Lenore,"  he  says,  breaking  out  into  impetu- 
ous speech,  "  you  have  said  so  many  disagreeable  things  to 
me  in  your  time,  that  one  more  will  not  matter ;  yes,  tell 
me — I  will  promise  not  to  burst  out  into  violence  ;  I  will 
even  try  to  look  pleased"  (smiling  sardonically) ;  is  there 
— is  there — any  talk  of  his  coming  back  ?  Have  you  any 
hope  of  it,  that  you  are  getting  rid  of  me  so  quickly, 
all  of  a  sudden  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  says,  harshly,  with  a  shrink- 
ing shiver,  as  if  one  had  torn  open  a  great  gaping  wound  in 
her  tender  body.  "  Do  you  think  that  if  I  had  had  any  hope 
I  should  have  sent  for  you  f  He  is  not  one  to  speak  lightly, 
to  say  one  thing  to-day  and  another  to-morrow ;  I  should 
wear  out  my  ears  with  listening  before  I  heard  the  wheels  of 
his  carriage  coming  back.  No,  no  ! "  (with  a  low,  sobbing 
sigh),  "  I  have  no  hope.  It  is  humiliating  to  speak  of  hope 
in  such  a  case,  is  not  it  ?  I  suppose  I  should  not,  if  I  had 
any  spirit." 

"  If  you  have  really  done  with  him  forever,  then,"  says 
the  young  man,  in  a  voice  which  is  still  half  doubting,  "  Le- 
nore— I  do  not  want  to  be  glad  at  what  makes  you  sorry; 
but  how  can  I  help  it  ? — then,  for  God's  sake,  come  to  me ; 
what  is  there  to  stand  between  us  ?  I  know  I  can  make 
you  forget  him ;  even  to-day — perhaps  you  will  laugh  at 
me  for  saying  so — you  seem  to  hate  me  a  shade  less  than 
you  did.  O  beloved,  out  of  the  great  harvest  of  love  that 
you  lavished  on  him — him  who  did  not  take  it,  who  hardly 
stooped  to  pick  it  up,  who  tossed  it  carelessly  back  to  you 
— have  not  you  saved  one  grain  for  me,  who  have  been 
hungry  and  famished  so  long  ?  " 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  345 

There  are  tears  in  his  shaken  voice,  though  none  in  his 
eyes  ;  and  indeed  a  man  who  weeps  in  wooing  mostly  damns 
himself.  In  a  hairy,  blubbered  face  there  must  always  be 
less  of  the  moving  than  the  ridiculous. 

"  Say  f  yes,' "  he  cries,  with  a  passionate  agony  of  plead- 
ing, twining  both  his  arms  once  more  about  her.  "  I  will 
hold  you  here  until  you  say  it.  I  will  let  no  sound  but 
'  yes '  pass  those  lips  that  have  never  yet  given  me  a  kind 
word  or  a  kiss  worth  the  taking." 

"  What  am  I  to  say '  yes '  to  ?  "  she  asks,  holding  aloof 
from  him,  as  much  as  may  be,  with  the  old  gesture  of 
shrinking  distaste.  "  Am  I  to  say  that  I  will  marry  you  ? 
Well,  I  said  that  a  month  ago  ;  that  is  settled.  Why  must 
we  go  over  all  the  old  story  again  ?  " 

"  But  do  we  mean  the  same  thing  ?  "  asks  Scrope,  with 
distrustful  vehemence.  "  That  is  the  question.  Will  you 
marry  me  now — at  once,  without  any  senseless,  causeless 
delay?" 

She  has  drawn  herself  away  from  him,  and  now  turns, 
and,  walking  to  the  window,  looks  blankly  out  on  the 
drear,  white  snow  world — on  the  long,  sharp  icicles  hang- 
ing from  the  leaves. 

"  Speak,"  he  says,  his  voice  sharpened  and  roughened, 
following  her  to  the  other  side  of  the  room.  "  I  am  wait- 
ing— I  will  wait  on  you  as  long  as  you  please ;  but  if  I 
keep  you  here  to  the  Judgment-Day  I  will  not  go  unan- 
swered !  Will  you  marry  me  to-morrow  ? — great  Heav- 
ens !  if  it  had  not  been  for  this  unhappy  contre-temps,  by 
to-morrow  you  would  have  been  four  days  my  wife  ! — or 
will  you  not  ?  " 

She  is  trembling  all  over,  and  her  cold,  white  face  is 
twitched  with  pain,  and  wet  with  unwiped  tears. 

"  Not  to-morrow  !  "  she  says,  with  an  involuntary  shud- 
der ;  "  not  so  soon — not  quite  so  soon.  Let  me  have  time 


346  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

to  draw  my  breath !  I  am  not  well ;  as  I  live,  I  am  not 
well.  See  how  thin  I  have  grown  "  (holding  out  one  hand, 
on  which  the  wandering  veins  and  the  small  bones  indicate 
their  places  more  clearly  than  they  did  last  year).  "  I, 
who  "  (smiling)  "  used  to  be  so  afraid  of  growing  too  fat ! 
I  do  not  think  I  need  be  afraid  of  that  now,  need  I  ?  Let 
me  get  quite  well — quite  strong  first.  I  shall  be  better 
worth  your  taking,  then." 

"  Lenore  ! "  cries  the  young  man,  seizing  her  by  the 
arm,  in  an  access  of  sudden  and  uncontrollable  passion, 
"  did  you  ever  in  all  your  life  think  of  any  one  but  your- 
self? What  business  have  you  to  spoil  my  life  for  me? 
What  business  have  you  to  make  me  a  laughing-stock  for 
everybody  ?— tell  me  that ! " 

"  I  have  no  business — none,"  she  answers,  drooping  her 
long  neck  and  sobbing. 

"  Will  you  marry  me  to-morrow,  Lenore  ?  "  (speaking 
with  the  stern  quiet  of  self-constraint). 

"  Not  to-morrow — not  to-morrow,"  she  answers,  mildly, 
turning  her  head  restlessly  from  side  to  side.  "  I  meant 
really  to  have  married  you  on  Tuesday — you  cannot  doubt 
that  ?  Had  I  not  my  wedding-dress  on  ?  But  see  how  ill 
the  thought  has  made  me.  Give  me  six  months.  In  six 
months  I  shall  get  used  to  the  idea ;  perhaps  I  shall  get  the 
better  of  my  temper.  Six  months  is  a  long  time  ;  things 
that  happened  six  months  ago  seem  a  long  way  off"  (her 
eyes  straying  dreamily  out  to  the  still,  white  trees,  and  the 
square  church-tower). 

"  I  see  how  it  is,"  he  says,  fiercely ;  "  I  have  been  very 
patient  with  you,  and  you  think  I  shall  be  patient  always. 
You  are  mistaken ;  I  am  sick  of  patience ;  I  have  done  with 
it.  I  will  marry  you  now  or  never." 

At  his  words,  her  swimming  eyes  flash,  and  the  wet 
carnation  flowers  hotly  on  her  cheeks. 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  347 

"  Do  you  wish,"  she  cries,  violently,  "  for  a  wife  who 
hates  your  touch  ? — who  dreads  being  left  alone  with  you  ? 
— who  never  hears  your  footstep  without  longing  to  fly  out 
of  sight — out  of  ear-shot  of  you  ?  If  you  do,  you  have  odd 
taste ! " 

He  clinches  his  hands,  and  his  teeth  close  hard  on  his 
under  lip,  but  he  does  not  trust  himself  to  speak. 

"  Is  not  it  my  own  interest  to  be  fond  of  you — to  marry 
you  ?  "  she  continues,  in  strong  excitement.  "  Are  not  you 
rich  and  prosperous  ?  and  have  not  I  all  my  life  been  in 
love  with  ease,  and  wealth,  and  pleasure?  Is  it  from 
choice  that  I  wake  all  night  ?  I  am  sick  of  being  unhappy, 
and  fretting,  and  hating  everybody.  God  knows  I  would 
be  happy  if  I  could !  Be  patient  a  little  longer — only  a 
little." 

But  he  only  answers,  "  JVbw  or  never" 

"  Well,  then,  it  must  be  never ! "  she  answers,  vehe- 
mently— "  there — you  have  said  it  yourself ;  it  is  your  do- 
ing, not  mine.  It  is  you  who  have  thrown  me  over — not  I 
you." 

"  Very  well,"  he  answers,  in  a  husky  whisper,  hastily 
averting  his  face,  to  hinder  her  from  seeing  the  havoc  that 
despair  is  working  on  its  beauty ;  "  you  are  right — it  shall 
be  never  I " 

Utter  silence  for  a  space — silence  as  deep  as  if  they  had 
been  dead. 

"  Lenore,"  he  says,  at  length,  turning  toward  her  for 
the  last  time  his  clay-white  glance  and  the  indignant 
agony  of  his  eyes,  "  you  make  one  say  ugly  things  to  you. 
Were  you  ever  any  thing  but  a  curse  to  any  one  that  you 
had  to  do  with  ?  You  have  cursed  full  six  months  of  my 
life?  but  you  shall  curse  no  more  of  it :  I  will  do  without 
you.  There  is  no  lesson  so  hard  that  one  cannot  learn  it 
in  time,  and  I  will." 


348  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

She  is  silent. 

"  Even  for  a  good  woman,  who  had  loved  one,  and 
whom  one  had  lost  by  death,  one  would  not  mourn  for- 
ever," he  continues,  in  the  same  rough,  unsteady  whisper; 
"  how  much  less  for  you,  who  have  never  given  me  any 
thing  but  unladylike  insults — unwomanly  gibes !  Good- 
bye, Lenore !  Yes,  good-bye !  But,  before  I  go,  give  me 
one  kiss — one  real  kiss.  Since  they  were  to  have  been  all 
mine,  spare  me  one ! " 

So  speaking  he  stoops,  and,  for  an  instant,  lays  his  lips 
upon  her  unwilling  mouth.  Then  he  goes.  Thus  she  is 
rid  of  all  her  lovers. 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  349 


NIGHT. 


'  Good-night,  good  sleep,  good  rest  from  sorrow, 
To  these  that  shall  not  have  good  morrow ; 
Ye  gods,  be  gentle  to  all  these. 
Nay,  if  death  be  not,  how  shall  they  be  ? 
Nay,  is  there  help  in  heaven  ?  it  may  be 
All  things  and  lords  of  things  shall  cease." 


CHAPTER  I. 

WHAT     THE     AUTHOR     SAYS. 

AFTEB  Life's  little  hot  day,  comes  Death's  long,  cool 
night ;  whether  of  the  two  is  the  pleasanter  ?  Well,  we 
shall  know  anon.  Oh !  patient  friends,  you  have  come 
with  me  so  far,  come  with  me  yet  a  little  farther.  I  will 
not  keep  you  long.  Already  the  shadows  sketch  them- 
selves ;  the  faint-colored  even  cometh.  Summer  is  here 
again — early  summer,  early  June,  as  when  first,  O  reader, 
you  and  I  met  and  panted  together  through  the  "  endless 
days,"  when  even  night  brought  not  darkness.  Down  in 
England,  the  meadows  have  a  lilac  tinge  over  them,  from 
the  ripe,  heavy-headed  grasses,  and  the  horse-chestnut 
flowers'  spikes  have  changed  into  little  prickly  green  balls. 
But  we  are  not  in  England,  O  reader,  you  and  I ;  we  are 
in  Switzerland,  in  the  high  cold  valley  of  the  Engadine. 

WHAT     JEMIMA     SAYS. 

We  are  at  the  end  of  our  day's  journey,  have  stiffly 
descended  from  the  huge  dusty  carriage  in  which  we  have 
crampedly  sat  all  the  long  and  shining  day.  To-morrow 


350  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

we  shall  reach  our  final  destination,  Pontresina.  Mean- 
while here  we  are,  up  among  the  mountains,  the  torrents, 
the  pines,  at  this  loveliest  village  of  Bergun.  An  hour 
has  passed  since  our  arrival,  and  we  have  dined,  if  you  can 
apply  that  sacred  word  to  the  empty  form  of  tapping  with 
our  knives  a  black-boned  chicken's  skeleton,  and  sipping  a 
nauseous  wine  of  the  country,  black  as  Tartarus,  and  with 
a  flavor  that  is  agreeably  compounded  of  pills,  slate-pencil, 
and  ink.  There  is  no  denying — degrading  as  it  is  to  the 
supremacy  of  mind  over  body — that  a  bad  dinner  has  a 
depressing  effect.  Not  one  of  us  three  but  feels  cross  and 
empty.  Sylvia  tries  to  sit  upon  a  hard-bottomed,  straight- 
backed  chair,  as  if  it  were  one  of  her  own  padded  easy 
ones,  and  fails.  Lenore  stalks  to  the  window  and  looks 
over  the  balcony.  I  think  that  people  grow  after  they  are 
thought  grown  up,  oftener  than  is  usually  supposed.  Le- 
nore has  certainly  grown  within  the  last  six  months,  or 
perhaps  it  is  only  her  loss  of  flesh  that  gives  her  such  a 
tall  look.  She  used  to  have  a  good  deal  of  the  shapely 
solidity  that  constitutes  a  person's  claim  to  be  a  fine 
woman — rather  a  butcher's  term  of  commendation,  at  best 
— shapely  she  must  always  be,  but  fine  she  is  no  longer ; 
only  very  slender  and  willowy.  I  pick  up  the  visitor's 
book,  read  the  dreary  waggeries,  the  lame  rhymes,  the 
consequential  commendations  of  bed  and  board.  I  come 
to  the  last  entry  : 

"  Mr.  Tompkins,  London. 
"  Mrs.  Tompkins,  " 
"  Miss  Tompkins,  " 
"  Miss  L.  Tompkins, " 
"Mr.  J.T.  Tompkins," 
"  Miss  Harris,  " 

"  Exceedingly  pleased  with  the  accommodation  at  this 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SATS.  351 

hotel — the  attendance  excellent,  rooms  most  clean,  and 
food  better  than  at  any  other  hotel  in  the  Engadine." 

I  read  this  aloud. 

"  There  is  a  prospect  for  us  ! " 

"  You  are  not  serious  ?  "  cries  Sylvia,  starting  upright 
in  her  chair,  and  opening  eyes  as  round  as  marbles  in  unaf- 
fected dismay.  "  That  is  not  really  there  !  You  are  only 
joking ! " 

"  Kead  for  yourself,"  I  answer,  handing  the  book  to  her, 
while  I  joined  our  junior  in  the  window.  Well,  one  must 
send  all  appetite  to  one's  eyes ;  there  is  at  least  plenty  of 
food  for  them.  The  pearly  evening  sky,  cut  by  the  cold 
lilac  peaks ;  the  mountains,  that  wear  always  round  their 
waist  and  feet  a  girdle  of  great  pines ;  a  sombre  army — 
rising,  pointed  top  above  pointed  top,  in  their  endless, 
fadeless  green ;  the  rough  torrent-course,  that  furrows  the 
hill's  face,  like  the  traces  of  a  tearful  agony ;  an  evening 
glimmer  of  meadow-flowers  ;  a  flash  of  bright  water.  And 
right  under  us  the  little  village  street,  the  deep-roofed  low 
houses,  the  tiny  casements,  out  of  which  the  lavish  pinks 
and  flowered  picotees  are  hanging;  the  queer  sententious 
inscription  on  the  chalet  nearest  us  : 

"DAS  HAUS  STET  IN  GOTTES  HAND, 
JAN  PEDEE  GEIGOEI 

BlN   ICH    GENAND." 

And  is  not  that  Jan  Peder  himself,  sitting  outside,  on  a  log 
of  wood  ?  He  is  old  and  withered,  and  very  much  the 
worse  for  wear. 

Insensibly  I  begin  to  forget  the  void  feeling  that  ruffled 
my  temper  five  minutes  ago,  as  I  listen  to  the  soothing 
drip,  drip,  of  the  two-spouted  pump,  that  is  always  pour- 
ing into  a  wooden  trough.  The  pump  seems  to  be  the 


352  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

rendezvous  of  the  village ;  the  leisurely  chatter,  in  this  odd 
mongrel  Romansch  tongue,  rises  soft  and  subdued  to  our 
ears.  A  tinkling  of  slow  bells,  as  a  herd  of  lovely,  smoke- 
colored  cows  come  slowly  treading  down  the  street,  and 
stoop  their  sleek  necks  to  drink.  If  one  could  see  the  in- 
side of  these  folks'  lives  no  doubt  one  would  find  that  they 
were  as  basely  grovelling  as  those  of  our  own  lower  orders 
— lives  probably  lightened  only  by  garlic  and  beer ;  but 
looking  now  at  the  outside  of  them,  on  this  quiet  purple 
evening,  it  seems  as  if  one  had  come  upon  a  little  sudden 
patch  of  old-world  innocent  Arcadia. 

"I  wish  that  Jan  Peder  Grigori  would  go  in-doors," 
says  Lenore,  gravely;  "  it  must  be  very  bad  for  him,  being 
out  so  late." 

"  There  must  be  some  one  here  besides  us,"  I  say,  lean- 
ing over  the  balcony,  and  pointing  to  a  second  and  smaller 
dusty  carriage,  drawn  up  behind  our  great  lumbering  ark. 

"  A  man,  too,"  says  Lenore,  with  lazy  interest,  "  if  a 
portmanteau  be  a  sufficient  proof  of  masculinity." 

"  It  is  such  a  bran-new  one,  too ; "  continue  I,  laughing, 
"  that  he  must  be  either  a  just-married  man,  or  a  man  just 
about  to  be  married." 

"  Who  was  it  said  that  a  new  flannel  petticoat  was  an 
infallible  sign  of  a  bride  ?  "  asks  Lenore,  languidly.  "Does 
the  same  hold  good  of  men  and  portmanteaus  ?  I  wish  we 
could  see  his  initials,  but  the  hat-box  hides  them." 

"  Now  that  I  think  of  it,"  I  say,  meditatively,  "  I  have 
a  vision  of  having  seen  vestiges  of  food  on  that  table  in 
the  corner ;  let  us  make  Kolb  find  out  who  he  is,  for,  by  his 
luggage,  I  feel  sure  that  he  is  an  Englishman." 

I  am  right.  An  Englishman  he  is,  name  unknown ;  he 
has  come  down  from  St.  Moritz,  and  is  on  his  homeward 
road ;  he  is  to  set  off  at  cock-crow  to-morrow,  and  he  went 
out  walking  only  five  minutes  before  our  arrival.  This  is 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  353 

all  the  information  we  obtain,  all  the  food  we  get  to  keep 
alive  our  faint  and  flagging  interest. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  stay  fustily  in-doors  all  evening  ? " 
asks  Lenore,  presently,  with  a  yawn,  "  because  I  do  not. 
I  am  sick  of  Jan  Peder,  and  the  pump,  and  the  goats ;  I 
shall  go  and  explore,  like  Mrs.  Elton  in  '  Emma.' " 

"  Do  not !  "  cry  I,  hastily,  and  dissuasively.  "  You 
know  that  going  out  when  the  dew  is  falling  always  brings 
on  your  cough." 

"Pooh!"  replies  she,  lightly.  "What  matter  if  it 
does  ?  I  am  going  to  set  up  such  a  stock  of  strength  at 
Pontresina  that  it  would  be  a  thousand  pities  not  to  be  a 
little  worse  before  I  get  there." 

"  At  least  put  on  your — "  I  begin,  but  she  interrupts 
me. 

"Did  you  ever  know  me  to  take  advice  in  all  your 
life  ?  "  she  asks,  with  a  petulant  gesture.  "  I  should  not 
wonder  if  I  met  our  unknown  friend  of  the  new  portman- 
teau ;  I  am  not  sure  that  I  am  not  going  to  look  for  him. 
Au  revoir  !  " 

I  gaze  after  her  and  sigh,  with  a  line  of  "  Elaine  "  run- 
ning in  my  head : 

"  Being  so  very  wilful,  you  must  go." 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  There  cannot  be  a  pinch  in  death  more  sharp  than  this  is." 
WHAT    THE    AUTHOR    SAYS. 

AFTER  all,  she  puts  a  shawl  over  her  head;  it  is  not  a 
very  thick  one,  but  neither  is  the  mountain  air  very  keen 
on  this  softly-creeping  summer  night.  It  is  red,  and  the 


354  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

old  men  and  the  women  sitting  in  the  door-ways  of  the 
dark  little  houses  stare  at  it  admiringly.  She  passes 
among  them  quickly — past  the  rickety  little  wooden  bal- 
conies, the  piles  of  firewood,  the  numberless  odd  little 
casements,  like  windows  in  a  doll's  house — it  is  not  them 
that  she  wants — till,  at  a  sudden  turn,  the  village  is  behind 
her,  out  of  sight — the  laughing,  leisurely,  chattering  vil- 
lage— and  the  river  that  she  sought  is  before  her.  A  great, 
bold  hill-shoulder  rises  in  front  of  her  against  the  dark 
night  sky,  and  beside  her  the  river  boils  and  maddens  along 
in  riotous  white  play ;  it  is  so  swift  that  the  eye  cannot 
follow  it ;  it  tosses  high  its  cold  spray,  and  cries  exulting- 
ly,  "  O  snow !  I  am  as  white  as  you."  Nobody  sees  her — 
she  is  all  alone ;  even  the  broad-faced  moon  has  not  yet 
looked  in  silver  and  pearl  over  the  hill.  When  one  is 
alone  one  does  many  foolish  things.  Lenore  throws  her- 
self on  her  knees  on  a  flat  stone  close  to  the  brink — dashed, 
indeed,  by  the  stream's  stormy  white  dust — and  speaks  out 
loud  to  it : 

"  O  good,  kind  little  river  !  will  you  drown  memory  for 
me  ? — will  you  drown  Paul  ?  " 

Lenore  is  not  always  thinking  of  Paul ;  sometimes  for 
almost  a  day  she  forgets  him ;  but,  long  as  it  is  since  he 
cast  her  off,  and  short  as  was  the  time  during  which  she 
possessed  him,  the  impulse  still  holds  her,  on  seeing  any 
beautiful  thing,  to  say,  "  I  will  show  it  to  Paul ;  "  on  hear- 
ing any  witty  thing,  "  I  will  tell  it  to  Paul."  Paul  was  a 
cross  fellow,  cruel  and  cold,  as  she  sometimes  tells  herself; 
but  he  would  have  loved  this  mad  river,  biting  and  raven- 
ing with  fierce  foam-teeth  against  the  dark  bowlders  that 
lie  in  its  bed,  and  crying  violently  to  them,  "Let  me 
pass  !  "  If  he  were  here  now,  among  the  yellow  tree-foil, 
his  arm  round  her  waist  and  her  head  on  his  shoulder ! — 
they  two  standing,  in  dumb  ecstasy,  with  only  the  larches 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SATS.  355 

waving  their  green  plumes  above  their  heads,  and  the  wa- 
ter's endless,  restless  roar,  that  ceases  not  day  nor  night, 
January  nor  June,  making  a  loud  hubbub  at  their  feet — 
alone  with  the  river,  the  mountains,  and  God  1  She  can 
almost  feel  his  arm ;  she  turns  her  eyes  to  look  up  into  his, 
but  then  the  dream  flies ;  there  are  no  kind  eyes  to  look 
into — there  is  no  Paul — -none  ! 

She  starts  up  hastily,  and  hurries  on.  The  gorge  nar- 
rows ;  there  is  only  room  for  her  and  for  the  river — the 
panting  fury  of  the  stream.  "  O  river !  you  take  my  breath 
away.  Tarry  a  little ;  I  cannot  keep  up  with  you ! "  But 
the  river  makes  answer :  "  I  cannot  tarry ;  I  have  an  errand 
unto  the  great  gray  sea."  On  and  on,  on  and  on  she 
saunters,  not  heeding  how  far  nor  whither,  until  at  length 
she  comes  to  a  slight  hand-bridge  of  planks  that  gives  and 
vibrates  beneath  her.  There  she  stands  and  leans  over  the 
slender  railing,  gazing,  with  eyes  that  try  in  vain  to  keep 
up  with  it,  at  the  swirling  torrent.  The  evening  is  both 
darkening  and  lightening :  darkening,  for  the  sun  is  gone 
farther  and  farther  away ;  lightening,  for  the  moon  is  com- 
ing— yea,  come.  Already  she  had  washed  the  hills'  faces 
with  her  cool  silver  flood :  now  her  pearl-white  feet  have 
reached — have  lightly  trodden  on  the  water — the  wonder- 
ful water  !  Can  it  be  all  the  same — the  same  when  it  lies 
in  opal  sleep,  and  when  it  plunges  against  and  angrily 
smites  its  drenched  rocks  ?  If  one  had  but  some  one — 
some  dear  person — to  show  it  all  to  ! 

After  crossing  the  bridge  the  path  she  has  hitherto  fol- 
lowed takes  a  sharp  turning  round  the  spur  of  a  bill,  and 
is  immediately  lost  to  sight.  As  she  stands,  still  leaning 
over  the  rickety  hand-rail,  and  watching  the  moon-colored 
bubbles,  she  hears  a  footstep  coming  along  this  unseen 
path.  It  is  growing  late ;  the  moon  is  rising  high ;  this 
place  is  inconceivably  lonely.  Her  first  impulse  is  to  turn 


356  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

and  run  homeward,  but  her  second  contradicts  it.  Why 
should  she  stir  ?  Bah  !  it  is  probably  some  innocent  rough 
peasant,  clumping  home  to  bed  in  his  deep-eaved  chalet. 
He  will  stare  at  her  cloak,  and  probably  give  her  a  Ro- 
mansch  "  good-night,"  to  which  she  will  be  puzzled  to  re- 
spond ;  so  she  stays.  Nearer  and  nearer  comes  the  footstep, 
and  her  heart  beats  a  trifle  quicker  than  its  wont.  Her 
eyes  are  fixed  on  the  corner  which  will  give  to  view  the 
owner  of  this  slow  and  intermittent  tread.  Here  he  comes, 
out  of  the  rock-shadow  into  the  light  !  He  is  not  a  peas- 
ant !  He  is  —  surely,  he  is  an  Englishman  !  He  is  —  Paul! 
O  God  in  heaven  !  it  cannot  be  !  Men  dress  so  much  alike 
—  there  is  such  a  deceptive  resemblance  between  all  the 
men  of  a  class  at  a  little  distance.  He  comes  a  step  or  two 
nearer,  then  stops  and  looks  upward.  The  moon  shines 
down  full  and  white  on  his  upturned  face  —  the  honest, 
shrewd  fac^,  that  is  neither  gentle  nor  beautiful.  She  sees 
his  cool  calm  eyes  glitter  in  the  moonbeams.  He  is  care- 
lessly dressed,  without  any  necktie.  His  strong  throat 
rises  bare  and  muscular,  and  his  hands  are  buried  deep  in 
the  pockets  of  the  old  Dinan  shooting-jacket.  Do  you 
think  that  she  faints  or  topples  over  into  the  water,  or 
screams  or  laughs  hysterically,  or  calls  out  loud?  Not 
she  !  She  only  stands  still,  with  one  slight  hand  hard 
grasping  the  hand-rail,  and  with  a  heart  whose  loud  pulsa- 
tions drown  the  voice  of  the  triumphant  foamy  stream, 
waiting  for  her  heaven  to  come  to  her.  Has  Death  let  her 
slip  by  him,  having  seen  her  bitter  pain  ?  Is  she  already 
in  the  blessed  land  ?  Paul  is  so  busy  moon-gazing  that  he 
is  close  to  her  —  his  foot  is  upon  the  plank  —  before  he  per- 
ceives her.  Then  he  jumps  almost  out  of  his  clothes  —  out 
of  his  Dinan  shooting-jacket—  out  of  his  skin. 


She  could  not  have  cried  "  Paul!"  in  answer  if  you 


WHAT  TEE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  357 

had  offered  her  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  as  a  bribe. 
He  stoops  his  tall  head  till  his  eager  face  is  close  to  hers  ; 
he  stares  hard  into  her  eyes;  he  even  stretches  out  his 
hand  and  touches  her  red  cloak  to  assure  himself  that  she 
is  real.  Yes,  it  is  no  ghost-woman ;  it  is  a  real  Lenore, 
with  a  face  much  paler,  indeed,  than  the  Lenore  he  remem- 
bers— a  face  grave  with  the  gravity  of  intense  emotion, 
touched  with  the  trouble  of  overpowering  wonder — that  is 
looking  back  at  him  with  wide  and  lovely  eyes. 

"  Great  Heaven !  who  would  have  thought  of  seeing 
you  here  ?  " 

In  the  accents  of  intense  surprise  it  is  difficult  to  ascer- 
tain the  presence  or  absence  of  joy  or  sorrow.  One  would 
be  puzzled  to  say  whether  Paul  was  very  glad  or  very 
grieved  at  this  meeting  at  the  \vcrld's  end  with  his  old 
love. 

"  Lenore  ! — is  it  Lenore  f  "  (again  narrowly  scanning 
her  white  and  quivering  face).  "  How,  in  the  name  of  won- 
der, did  you  come  here  ?  " 

It  is  stupid  to  be  so  tongueless,  is  not  it?  standing 
dumb,  with  hanging  head,  like  a  child  playing  at  being  shy. 
But  she  seems  to  have  lost  the  art  of  framing  words. 

"  Will  you  not  speak  to  me  ? "  he  continues,  with  an 
eager  hesitation,  mistaking  the  cause  of  her  speechlessness ; 
"  will  you  not  shake  hands  with  me  ?  " 

She  puts  out  her  hand  in  a  moment :  does  he  feel  how 
it  is  shaking  as  it  lies  in  his  cool  clasp  ? 

"  You — you — are  not  alone  here  ?  "  involuntarily  glan- 
cing at  her  left  hand).  "  You  are  with — with — " 

"  No,  I  am  not  alone,"  she  answers,  speaking  every 
word  very  slowly  and  carefully,  as  if  not  quite  sure 
whether  the  right  words  would  come ;  "  Jemima  and 
Sylvia—" 

"Jemima!"  he  says,  pronouncing  the  word,  with  a 


358  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

lingering1  emphasis,  as  if  it  carried  him  back  into  memory, 
and  smiling  rather  pensively. 

Both  are  silent  for  a  few  moments — only  two  voices  are 
heard:  the  river's  loud  hoarse  one,  as  it  keeps  calling 
always  to  the  rocks  and  the  dumb  green  pines,  and  the 
grasshopper's  sharp  and  shrill — and  infinitely  content.  If 
it  could  but  last  forever !  They  two  standing  on  that  nar- 
row bridge,  on  a  sheet  of  silver,  the  river — all  silver,  too — 
tearing  and  roaring  below  them ;  the  larches  softly  tossing 
their  small  green  feathers ;  the  unsleeping  grasshopper 
singing  his  pleasant  song ;  and  they  two  looking  kindly 
into  each  other's  eyes.  But  when  could  one  ever  say  to 
any  happy  moment,  as  Joshua  said  to  the  docile  sun,  "  Stand 
thou  still  ?  "  He  will  not  stand  still ;  he  could  not  if  he 
would ;  he  is  jostled  away  by  his  pushing  younger  broth- 
ers. 

"  How  often  I  have  wondered  whether  I  should  ever 
meet  you  again !  "  says  Paul,  presently,  with  a  long  sigh  ; 
"after  all,  the  world  is  small — and  if  I  did,  where  and 
how?  Certainly,  this  is  the  last  place  that  ever  would 
have  entered  my  head ;  and  yet,  only  five  minutes  ago  I 
was  thinking  of  you." 

"  Were  you  ? "  she  says,  softly,  while  her  eyes  shine 
gently  back  at  him,  like  beautifulest  dew-wet  flowers 
through  happy  tears ! 

"  You  have  forgiven  me  ?  "  he  says,  anxiously  catching 
hold  of  her  other  hand,  and  holding  both  in  the  same  loose 
friendly  clasp  in  which  he  had  before  held  the  one.  "  We 
are  friends,  are  not  we?  At  peace  ?  " 

She  has  no  hands  to  hide  her  face ;  she  cannot  hinder 
him  from  seeing  how  her  drooped  eyes  brim  over — how  the 
heavy  great  tears  are  rolling  down  over  her  smart  scarlet 
cloak.  In  the  tender  gentleness  of  her  small  wet  face  there 
is  not  much  war. 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  359 

"  Do  not  cry,"  he  says,  looking  surprised  and  miserable, 
as  a  man  always  does,  when  a  woman  unexpectedly  weeps. 
"  What  is  there  to  cry  about  ?  I  am  not "  (smiling  rather 
awkwardly)  "  going  to  scold  you  this  time.  You  know  I 
always  was  a  good  hand  at  lecturing,  was  not  I  ?  Often 
and  often  since  I  have  wished  that  I  had  not  been  quite 
such  a  good  one.  ...  I  can  hardly  believe  that  it  is  you," 
he  says,  after  a  pause,  again  interrupting  the  river's  and 
the  grasshoppers'  duet.  "  What  have  you  been  doing  to 
yourself  ?  Somehow  you  are  different.  You  are  too  old 
to  grow,  1  suppose ;  people  do  not  grow  at  nineteen ;  but 
— but — surely  you  are  thinner  than  you  used  to  be  !  Have 
you  been  ill  ?  Are  you  ill  now  ?  " 

"  Not  very,"  she  answers,  lightly ;  "  anybody  else  would 
have  made  a  trifle  of  it,  but  you  know  I  always  make  the 
most  of  things,  and  I  have  not  much  of  a  constitution — so 
they  tell  me." 

He  does  not  ask  any  other  question  for  the  moment. 

"  For  my  part,  I  am  glad,"  she  continues,  with  a  rest- 
less laugh.  "  I  never  could  see  what  use  a  good  constitu- 
tion was  to  any  one,  except  to  make  them  suffer  more,  and 
die  harder  when  their  time  came." 

"  I  suppose  you  have  been  threatening  to  break  a 
blood-vessel  again,"  he  says,  with  a  smiling  allusion  to 
what  she  had  told  him  on  one  of  the  earliest  days  of  their 
acquaintance.  "  Good  God !  can  that  be  only  a  year 
ago?" 

"  Only  a  year ! "  she  echoes,  dreamily.  "  But  a  year  is 
a  long  time." 

"  You  are  pale,  too,"  he  says,  proceeding  with  his  scru- 
tiny ;  "  are  you  always  pale  now  ?  The  only  time  that  I 
remember  you  as  pale  as  you  are  now  was  that  night  when 
I  upset  you  into  the  Ranee !  How  wet  you  were  !  How 
the  water  dripped  from  your  long  hair  1  I  did  not  believe 


360  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

till  then  that  women  really  had  such  long  hair.  I  can  see 
you  now ! "  His  gray  eyes  look  kind  and  almost  wistful 
as  he  thus  travels  back  into  the  pretty  dead  past. 

"  Can  you  ?  "  she  says,  almost  inaudibly. 

"  It  was  all  a  mistake,  I  suppose,"  he  continues,  sigh- 
ing, "  a  blunder — a  bungle — but  it  was  pleasant  while  it 
lasted,  was  not  it  ?  " 

She  cannot  speak  for  tears. 

"  Lenore,"  he  says,  after  another  silence,  in  a  tone  of 
stronger  excitement  than  any  that  he  has  yet  used,  "  I  am 
going  to  tell  you  something.  Often  and  often  I  have  won- 
dered whether  I  should  ever  have  the  chance  of  telling  you. 
Sometimes  I  have  wished  that  I  should,  and  sometimes  I 
have  hoped  that  I  should  not.  It  does  not  much  matter 
what  you  think  of  me  now,  one  way  or  another,  but  I  do 
not  think  that  it  will  improve  your  opinion  of  either  my 
wisdom  or  my  humility.  Do  you  remember  that  last  letter 
you  sent  me  ?  " 

She  is  not  pale  now ;  he  cannot  accuse  her  of  it.  No 
rose  in  any  midsummer  garden  was  ever  so  red ;  and  her 
streaming  eyes  flash  in  the  mild  moonlight  with  the  old 
angry  spirit.  Is  he  going  to  twit  her  with  that  poor  little 
overture  that  miscarried  so  piteously  ? 

"  I  did  not  believe  in  it,"  he  goes  on,  still  in  hot  excite- 
ment. "  I  was  sore  and  mad  from  your  galling  bitter 
words.  Lenore"  (almost  entreatingly),  " why  do  you  let 
your  tongue  cut  like  a  knife  ?  I  thought  it  was  only  a 
flirting  manoeuvre  to  get  me  back  and  make  a  fool  of  me  a 
second  time.  I  hate  being  made  a  fool  of !  Nobody  had 
ever  taken  the  trouble  to  do  it  before.  I  hate  being  trod- 
den upon.  I  like  to  walk  upright  and  go  my  own  way." 

"Well?" 

"  You  remember  the  answer  I  sent — I  hope  you  burnt 
it — I  am  not  proud  of  it,"  reddening  through  all  his  sun- 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  301 

tan.  "  Well,  when  it  was  gone,  I  read  your  letter  over 
again,  and,  by  dint  of  poring  over  it  line  by  line,  I  grew  to 
think  that  there  was  a  true  ring  in  it.  Lenore,  it  was  very 
clever  of  you !  I  do  not  know  how  you  managed  to  get 
that  true  ring.  I  began  to  think  of — of — the  dear  old 
time  "  (his  voice,  though  he  is  a  man,  shakes  a  little).  "  I 
began — you  will  laugh  at  me  for  thinking  of  such  a  trifle 
at  such  a  moment — to  remember  the  old  blue  gown  and 
Huelgoat." 

She  turns  away  and  leans  over  the  bridge ;  and,  unseen 
by  him,  unseen  by  any  one,  her  tears  hotly  drop  into  the 
cold  river,  and  are  swallowed  by  it. 

"  I  recollected  things  you  used  to  say,"  he  continues, 
with  a  pensive  smile,  given  rather  to  the  past  then  the 
present.  "You  had  such  a  pretty,  fond  way  of  saying 
things — well "  (dashing  his  hand  across  his  forehead,  and 
abruptly  changing  his  rtone),  "  the  upshot  of  it  was,  that  I 
resolved  to  ask  you  to — to — to — kiss  and  make  friends,  in 
short — I  suppose  one  may  as  well  word  it  in  that  childish 
way  as  any  other.  I  had  even"  (beginning  to  laugh 
harshly,  for  one's  laughs  at  one's  own  expense  are  rarely 
melodious)  "got  a  new  pen,  squared  my  elbows,  and  sat 
down  to  write  to  you."  She  is  trembling  all  over,  and 
panting,  as  one  breathless  from  a  long  race. 

"  Why  did  not  you  ? — why  did  not  you  ? "  she  cries, 
with  almost  a  wail. 

"  Why  did  not  If  "  he  repeats,  looking  at  her  with 
unfeigned  astonishment.  "I  wonder  at  your  asking  that. 
Why?  Because  at  that  very  moment,  not  a  week  after 
you  had  composed  that  triumph  of  pathos  "  (with  a  bitter 
sneer),  "  I  heard  of  your  engagement  to  Scrope.  I  saw 
how  much  the  true  ring  was  worth  then ;  I  believe  I 
laughed.  There  is  always  something  to  be  thankful  for, 
and  I  was  heartily  thankful  that  I  had  not  written.  There 
16 


362  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

is  no  use  in  eating  more  dirt  than  one  can  help  in  this 
world,  is  there  ?  " 

"  But  I  am  not  engaged  now !  "  she  cries,  passionately. 
"  I  can  hardly  believe  that  I  ever  was  really  ;  people  exag- 
gerate things  so  in  the  telling.  I  think  it  was  always  more 
play  than  earnest." 

"  More  play  than  earnest  f  "  he  repeats,  in  utter  and 
blank  astonishment.  "  Why,  I  understood  that  the  wed- 
ding-day had  come — that  you  were  all  dressed-^and  that  it 
was  only  put  off  on  account  of  your  having  been  taken 
suddenly  ill ! " 

"  Yes,"  she  answers,  incoherently ;  "  thank  God,  I  was 
ill,  very  ill;  that  was  what  saved  me!  Thank  God! — 
Thank  God!" 

"  Saved  you  ? "  he  repeats,  looking  at  her  with  un- 
limited wonder ;  "  how  do  you  mean  ?  Surely  it  was  your 
own  doing  ?  It  was  only  put  off,  was  not  it  ? — it  is  still 
to  be?" 

"  Never  ! — never  !  "  she  cries,  wildly.  "  Who  can  have 
told  you  such  things  ?  It  was  all  a  farce  from  beginning 
to  end ;  it  never  was  any  thing  serious.  I — I — think  I 
must  have  been  a  little  off  my  head." 

"And  you  are  not  engaged  to  Scrope?"  (with  an 
accent  of  extreme  surprise). 

"Not  I,"  she  answers,  vehemently;  "do  not  suggest 
any  thing  so  dreadful." 

"  Nor  to  any  one  else  ?  " 

"  Any  one  else  !  "  she  echoes,  scornfully.  "  To  whom 
else  should  I  be  ?  Must  I  always  be  engaged  to  some 
one?" 

Now  that  it  is  all  clear  between  them,  now  that  all  clouds 
of  misconception  have  been  swept  away,  now  that  they 
are  all  alone  here  in  the  moonlight,  surely  he  will  take  her 
in  his  arms.  Her  head  will  rest  on  the  shoulder  of  the  old 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  363 

jacket,  where  it  lias  so  often  confidently  lain  before.  But 
he  only  turns  away  with  something  like  a  curse,  and  says, 
half  under  his  breath,  "  God !  what  lies  people  tell ! "  A 
silence.  When  next  Paul  speaks,  it  is  in  a  constrained 
and  sedulously-governed  voice. 

"  I  did  not  bless  either  you  or  him  that  day,  I  can  tell 
you — not  that  that  did  you  much  harm  ;  but  this  was  quite 
at  the  first,  quite.  When  a  thing  has  sense  and  justice  in 
it,  one  soon  gives  up  pricking  against  it.  I  have  long 
given  up  pricking  against  this ;  I  have  grown  so  wise  " 
(laughing  nervously)  "  that  I  acquiesce  in  it  contentedly." 

"  Do  you  ? "  she  says,  and  her  throat  seems  to  have 
grown  suddenly  dry,  and  to  send  forth  only  harsh  and  ugly 
sounds. 

"  Perhaps — perhaps  you  will  come  round  to  him  yet," 
says  Paul,  speaking  with  a  very  white  face,  and  a  tremor 
in  his  deep  voice ;  "  in  time,  you  know ;  time  does  surpris- 
ing things — things  that  one  would  not  believe !  You — 
you  might  do  worse." 

A  fiery, 'searing  pain  goes  through  her  heart. 

"  You  are  very  good,"  she  says,  while  the  flame  of  her 
hot  eyes  dries  her  tears ;  "  but  I  really  do  not  see  what 
business  it  is  of  yours." 

"  None,"  he  answers,  almost  humbly ;  "  none !  I  beg 
your  pardon  for  having  said  it ;  but  you  know  you  con- 
sented just  now  that  we  should  be  friends,  and  friends  may 
take  an  interest  in  each  other's  future,  may  not  they?  " 

She  does  not  answer ;  she  is  listening  to  the  grasshop- 
per— his  sharp  treble  song  seems  to  have  grown  very  dis- 
mal all  of  a  sudden. 

"  Lenore,"  cries  the  other,  impulsively,  again  catching 
her  small  hands,  "  before  we  say  any  thing  more,  let  me 
tell  you — I  must  tell  you — about — about  my  future." 

"  Well  ?  " 


364  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

Her  eyes,  dry  now,  achingly  dry,  are  staring  back  at 
him,  with  an  unnamed  fear. 

"  My  people  have  been  up  at  St.  Moritz,"  he  says,  going 
on  rapidly  with  his  story,  "  so  have  I,  for  the  last  two 
months  ;  I  am  hurrying  home  now  as  fast  as  I  can,  to  get 
things  straight.  I  am  going — perhaps  you  have  heard  it 
already — I  am  going  to  be  married." 

When  one  receives  a  mortal  blow,  sometimes  one  does 
not  feel  much  pain  at  the  first — so  they  tell  me ;  one  is 
only  stunned.  I  do  not  think  that  Lenore  feels  much  pain, 
only  her  wits  go  a  wool-gathering.  Not  for  long,  however. 
Even  though  one  is  light-headed  from  extremest  agony, 
one  has  still  the  womanly  instinct  to  draw  a  decent  cloak 
over  one's  ugly  yawning  wounds.  Not  much  more  than 
the  usual  interval  between  question  and  answer  has  elapsed, 
before  some  one — some  kind  spirit,  I  think,  who  has  crept 
inside  her  cold  and  quivering  body — speaks  in  almost  Le- 
nore's  voice — speaks  with  a  stiff  little  smile  : 

"  To  your  cousin  ?  " 

"  Yes,  to  my  cousin." 

A  little  trifling  pause,  that  would  not  be  noticed,  so 
short  is  it,  in  any  ordinary  conversation  ;  a  pause,  during 
which  Lenore  is  fighting  more  fiercely  than  ever  the  typical 
lioness  fought  for  her  whelps — fighting  for  a  voice,  for  a 
laugh,  for  civil  careless  words  ;  and  he  or  she  who  in  one 
of  these  mortal  battles  fights  strongly,  with  heart  and  soul, 
with  decency  and  self-respect  on  his  or  her  side,  mostly 
overcomes.  Only  it  takes  a  great  deal  of  lint  to  heal  the 
wounds  afterward.  Lenore  overcomes.  But  the  victory 
is  hardly  complete  ;  she  cannot  let  him  see  her  face.  She 
leans  over  the  bridge-side,  as  she  leaned  five  minutes  ago 
to  hide  her  happy  tears ;  but  there  are  no  tears  to  hide 
now. 

"  The  ideal  girl ! "  she  says,  with  a  sort  of  laugh.    "  The 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SATS.  365 

woman  with  eyes  like  a  shot  partridge's — rather  dull,  but 
very  loving  !  You  see  I  remember  all  about  her." 

Paul  does  not  speak ;  he  also  leans  over  the  bridge, 
and  there  is  not  much  of  the  triumphant  bridegroom  in  the 
eyes  that  are  idly  fixed  on  a  pointed  rock,  gray,  and  shin- 
ing with  wet  moonbeams,  which  every  minute  the  stream 
deluges. 

"  If  you  remember,  I  always  prophesied  it,"  says  the 
girl,  feeling  her  words  come  more  readily ;  "  only,  like 
Cassandra,  nobody  believed  my  prophecies." 

"  Why  did  you  prophesy  it  ?  "  he  asks,  almost  angrily. 
"  There  was  no  sense  in  such  a  prophecy — no  ground  for 
it.  There  was  not  such  a  thought  in  any  one's  head — no, 
nor  ever  would  have — " 

He  stops  suddenly.  She  does  not  speak,  only  she 
shakes  her  head  gently.  Her  wits  have  come  quite  back ; 
she  has  buried  the  pain  in  a  shallow  hole,  out  of  sight,  for 
the  moment.  When  this  is  over — when  he  is  gone — it 
will  shake  off  the  light  covering  of  its  temporary  grave, 
and  rise  up  like  a  giant.  Then  again  she  will  have  to 
fight ;  but  now  for  the  moment  she  has  won  a  most  numb 
quiet. 

"  Why  do  you  shake  your  head  ?  "  he  asks,  abruptly. 
"  Does  it  mean  that  you  do  not  believe  me  ?  At  least  in 
the  old  time  you  used  to  give  me  credit  for  speaking  truth 
— sometimes  too  much  truth  to  please  you ;  why  should  I 
deceive  you  now  ? — now  that  no  word  that  either  you 
or  I  could  speak  could  bring  us  one  jot  nearer  each 
other?" 

Still,  she  only  leans  her  arms  on  the  rail  of  the  bridge 
— leans  heavily  on  it — and  her  drooped  head  sinks  low 
down. 

"  When  was  it  that  you  prophesied  it  ?  "  he  asks,  al- 
most in  a  whisper,  coming  nearer  her.  "  Was  it  at  Huel- 


366  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

goat,  or  at  Chateaubriand's  tomb,  as  we  stood  and  watched 
the  waves  and  the  sea-gulls  ?  If  you  did,  I  compliment 
you ;  you  were  indeed  far-seeing."  (No  answer.)  "  I 
never  was  one  to  care  violently  for  anybody — never.  The 
game  never  seemed  to  me  worth  the  candle.  It  does  not 
sound  well,  but  I  had  always  liked  myself  best ;  but — 
somehow  I  like  to  say  it  now,  though  there  is  not  much 
sense  in  it  (shake  your  head  as  much  as  you  please) — but, 
before  God,  I  did  care  for  you  beyond  measure  in  my  way 
— it  was  not  a  very  pleasant  way — only  I  tried  my  best  to 
hide  it.  I  knew  your  amiable  peculiarity  of  never  valuing 
what  you  could  get ;  but  I  did  love  you — I  did — I  did!  " 
(rising  into  an  emphasis  and  excitement  most  unlike  him 
as  he  ends). 

"  Did  you,"  she  says,  faintly,  a  little  spark  of  animation 
coming  into  her  face  and  into  her  dull  eyes.  "  I  thought 
you  liked  me  ;  afterward  they  all  said  you  did  not." 

"  Well,  I  love  no  one  beyond  measure  now,  I  suppose," 
he  says  hastily,  pushing  the  hair  off  his  forehead  with  » 
cross  and  jerky  movement.  "  My  affections  are  quite  with- 
in bounds — well  in  hand  "  (smiling  ironically).  "  The  other 
was  the  pleasantest  while  it  lasted,  but  no  doubt  this  is 
the  healthier  state."  (Still,  silence.)  "  It  is  much  better 
as  it  is,"  he  says  presently,  speaking  vehemently,  and  as  if 
more  with  a  view  to  convincing  himself  than  her.  "  If  we 
had  married  then,  how  we  should  have  hated  each  other  by 
now !  Did  we  ever  look  at  any  thing  from  the  same  point 
of  view  ? — and  you  are  not  a  woman  to  be  shaped  to  a  hus- 
band's liking.  Good  God !  how  I  laughed  at  that  idiot 
West's  notion  of  moulding  you!  You  would  not  have 
given  in,  neither  should  I.  Yes,  we  should  have  been 
miserable." 

"  Miserable  —  yes,  miserable  —  most  miserable,"  she 
echoes  very  slowly  and  mechanically  ;  but  whether  she  ap- 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  367 

plies  the  word  to  the  hypothetical  case  he  puts,  or  to  her 
own  actual  one,  is  not  clear  even  to  herself. 

"You  agree  with  me?"  he  says,  sharply,  as  if  not 
much  gratified  by  the  discovery  of  her  acquiescence.  "  Of 
course !  I  knew  you  did.  Yes,  it  is  better  for  both  of  us ; 
specially  better  for  you" 

"  Much  better,"  she  says,  speaking  with  an  immense 
effort,  and  even  accomplishing  a  laugh.  "  As  you  say,  when 
did  we  ever  look  at  any  thing  from  the  same  point  of  view, 
even  during  the  short  time  we  were  together  ? — how  short ! 
how  short !  "  (uttering  the  words  in  a  dragging,  dreary 
way).  "Hardly  a  day  passed  that  we  did  not  quarrel. 
Yes,  it  was  pleasant  at  the  time — quite  pleasant.  I  sup- 
pose that  your— your — cousin"  (with  a  tight,  strained 
smile)  "  will  not  mind  my  allowing  that,  will  she  ?  But, 
no  doubt  we  shall  both  do  better— I,  as  you  say,  especially." 

A  little  pause. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  he  says,  suddenly,  "  that  day  at 
St.-Malo;  howl—" 

She  interrupts.  "  I  remember  nothing,"  she  says,  firmly, 
though  her  pale  lips  tremble.  "  I  have  the  worst  memory 
in  the  world."  He  looks  mortified,  and  relapses  into  si- 
lence. "  Tell  me,"  she  says,  presently,  with  a  nervous  ex- 
citement in  her  manner,  "  tell  me  all  about  yourself;  that 
is  much  more  interesting.  When  is  it  to  be — what  day 
exactly  ?  I  should  like  to  think  of  you,  you  know — to 
drink  your  health,  and  "  (laughing  hysterically)  "  I  suppose 
I  ought  to  send  you  a  present,  ought  not  I  ?  " 

"  For  God's  sake,  do  not !  "  he  cries,  hastily,  "  unless 
you  can  send  me  your  bad  memory ;  I  should  thank  you 
for  that." 

"  You  never  quarrel  with  her,  I  suppose  ? "  continues 
the  girl,  drawing  strength  even  from  the  very  intensity  of 
her  own  misery  to  speak  collectedly,  and  even  smilingly. 


368  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  It  is  all  smooth  sailing,  like  a  boat  on  a  duck-pond !  No 
doubt  you  can  mould  her,  like  a  piece  of  clay,  into  what- 
ever shape  you  like." 

Paul  reddens.  "  She  is  a  good  girl,"  he  says  moodily  ; 
"  and  when  I  am  away  from  you  I  know  that  I  shall  be  hap- 
py with  her — at  least "  (sighing  heavily)  "  I  ought  to  be ;  at 
all  events,  I  shall  have  peace — that  is  something.  All  my 
life  before  I  met  you  I  thought  it  was  every  thing."  (After 
a  pause)  "  Thank  God,  she  does  not  know  how  to  sneer ! 5) 

"  And  when  is  it  to  be  ?  "  she  asks,  still  smiling ;  "  you 
know  you  have  not  told  me  ;  tell  me.  I  wish  to  know  the 
day — the  very  day." 

"  Immediately,"  he  says,  feverishly ;  "  the  sooner  the 
better.  What  is  there  to  wait  for  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  will  think  of  you,"  she  says,  commanding  her 
voice  with  great  difficulty,  and  stretching  out  her  trembling 
hand  kindly  to  him;  "yes,  I  will — that  is"  (breaking  into 
an  unsteady  laugh),  "  if — if — I  do  not  forget." 

"  Do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  he  cries,  roughly  pressing 
the  slender  cold  fingers;  "neither  then  nor  ever !  Let  us 
make  a  compact,  never  to  think  of  each  other  again.  What 
pleasant  thoughts  can  we  have  of  one  another  ?  Least  of  all, 
think  of  me  on  that  day,"  he  continues,  after  an  interval, 
speaking  with  the  signs  of  strong  excitement.  "  I  ask  it  of 
as  you  a  favor ;  if  your  face  comes  between  me  and  the  par- 
son "  (laughing  harshly)  "  I  shall  not  be  very  ready  with  my 
responses  !  Let  me  have  one  good  look  at  you  !  "  (after 
another  pause,  while  his  breath  comes  quick  and  short) 
"  just  one.  It  would  be  a  pity  quite  to  forget  the  face  of  the 
handsomest  woman  one  ever  knew,  would  not  it  ?  There  ! 
— there !  "  There  is  the  pallor  of  a  mad  longing  on  his 
cold  shrewd  face,  as  he  stands  staring  and  stammering  in 
the  moonlight.  "  Good-bye,  lovely  eyes  ! "  he  says,  in  a 
hoarse  whisper ;  "  good-bye,  lovely  lips !  you  gave  me  no 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  369 

peace  while  I  had  you ;  but,  yet  I  wish — O  God !  how  I 
wish—" 

He  stops  abruptly.  His  mad  fond  words  have  brought 
back  the  solace  of  all  the  sorrowful  to  her  smarting  eyes  ; 
they  are  shining  with  the  soft  dimness  of  tender  tears,  as 
they  grow  to  his  harsh  and  altered  face. 

"Wish  nothing,"  she  says,  gently.  "I  have  wished 
many  things  in  my  time — that  you  were  dead ;  that  I  my- 
self were ;  that  one  could  have  things  twice  over,  or  not 
at  all — but  you  see  they  have  none  of  them  come  true." 

"  Let  me,  at  lea*st,  wish  one  thing,"  he  cries,  violently. 
"  Whether  you  let  me,  or  no,  I  will  wish  it !  I  will  pray, 
and  urgently  entreat  God  for  it — that  this — this  hell,  that 
is  just  half  a  step  off  heaven,  may  not  come  over  again ! 
Lenore,  pretty  Lenore,  what  ill-luck  makes  us  both  live  in 
England  ?  What  security  have  we  that  we  shall  not  come 
across  each  other  again,  and  yet  again,  and  yet  again  ?  " 

"  There  is  not  much  danger,"  she  says,  calmly,  "  at 
least,  not  yet  awhile ;  we  are  not  going  home ;  we  are 
going  up  to  Pontresina  for  many  months — for  all  the  sum- 
mer." 

"To  Pontresina?"  he  exclaims,  brusquely.  "What 
are  you  going  there  for  ?  Health  or  pleasure  ?  Not 
health  surely?"  peering  at  her  again  with  an  anxious 
suspicion. 

"  Partly,"  she  answers ;  and  then  trying  to  speak  lightly 
and  merrily,  "  I  suppose  being  over-lively  and  over-amused 
wears  one  out  as  much  as  over-work  or  over-grief ;  I  was 
so  gay  last  winter—- so  gay — that  I  danced  all  the  flesh  off 
my  bones." 

He  makes  no  comment  on  this  announcement. 

"  I  am  going  to  lay  up  such  a  store  of  strength  against 
next  winter,"  she  continues,  laughing  almost  loudly,  "  for 
I  mean  to  be  gayer  than  ever  then — gayer  than  ever." 


370  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

The  contrast  between  the  words  she  is  uttering  and  the 
black  devastation  that  is  laying  waste  her  soul  strikes  her 
with  such  bitter  force  that  she  turns  away  sharply. 

"  Do  you  ?  "  he  says,  fiercely.  "  I  dare  say !  What  is 
it  to  me  ?  Why  do  you  tell  me  ?  " 

Higher  and  higher  the  fair  broad  moon  has  been  sail- 
ing; she  has  reached  her  "zenith;  now,  nothing  escapes 
her ;  every  larch-feather,  every  yeasty  crown  of  froth,  every 
daisy  and  fine  grass-blade,  she  has  daintily  washed. 

"  I  am  going,"  Paul  says,  with  rough  suddenness. 
"What  am  I  waiting  for?  Can  you  tell  me  that?  If  I 
stayed  here  all  to-night  and  to-morrow,  and  the  night  after, 
what  would  be  changed  ?  This  vile  stream  would  still  be 
thundering  on,  and  we  should  still  be  standing  here,  eating 
our  hearts  out  with  longing  for  things  that,  if  we  had  them, 
would  not  give  us  content." 

"  Yes,"  she  says,  and  her  own  pretty,  womanly  voice  is 
almost  as  harsh  as  his,  "  go !  Who  is  keeping  you  ?  " 

His  face  is  white — so  white — with  the  pallor  of  unwill- 
ing passion,  that  he  is  trembling  all  over. 

"  And  must  I  leave  you  here,  all  alone  in  this  desolate 
place?"  he  asks,  in  a  husky  whisper;  "all  alone,  as  I 
found  you?" 

And  she  echoes,  "  All  alone  ! " 

"You  are  not  frightened?" 

Again  she  laughs,  though  the  muscles  about  her  face 
seem  tight  and  stiff. 

"What  should  I  be  frightened  at?" 

Their  hands  are  interlocked,  and  their  eyes  are  fixed  on 
each  other's  faces. 

"  This  is  the  third  time  we  have  said  *  Good-bye,'  "  he 
says,  indistinctly.  "  The  last  was  bad  enough,  but,  for  my 
part,  I  liked  it  better  than  this  ;  and  the  first — Lenore,  do 
you  remember  the  first  on  the  steamboat  at  St.-Malo  ?  " 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  371 

"  I  remember  nothing"  she  says,  breaking  out  into 
impetuous  passion,  while  the  blood  runs  headlong  to  her 
cheeks.  "  How  many  times  must  I  tell  you  that  it  is  an 
accursed  word  ?  I  have  torn  it  out  of  my  vocabulary ! 
I  always  look  on — on — now"  (speaking  feverishly). 
"  Surely  there  must  be  something  pleasant  ahead  some- 
where— somewhere ! " 

"  Perhaps,"  he  says,  gloomily ;  "  but  one  thing  I  am 
sure  of — O  Lenore !  you  are  sure  of  it,  too — and  that  is, 
that  there  is  nothing  so  pleasant  ahead  as  what  we  have 
left  behind ! " 

These  are  his  last  words. 


CHAPTER   III. 

WHAT     JEMIMA     SAYS. 

AND  now  we  have  done  with  Bergun ;  in  all  probability 
we  shall  see  its  little  eaves  and  deep  doll's-house  windows 
never  again.  How  happily  might  one  (one  is  not  equiva- 
lent to  I  here)  spend  a  honey-moon  among  its  rocks,  and 
pine  slopes,  and  flowered  fields,  always  supposing  that  one 
had  brought  one's  own  food  with  one^  I  confess  to  an 
opinion  that  the  chicken's  black  skeleton,  and  the  untold 
nauseousness  of  the  Sasseila,  would  cool  the  ardor  of  the 
warmest  pair  that  ever  yawned  and  fondled  through  the 
conventional  month.  We  are  still,  however,  in  the  foodless 
land  of  the  Engadine ;  we  have  reached  Pontresina.  It 
is  a  long  name,  is  not  it  ?  But  the  name  is  longer  than  the 
place ;  it  is  only  a  cluster  of  houses,  white  as  the  defacer 
of  all  beauty,  whitewash,  can  make  them.  If  I  had  had 


372  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

the  world's  reins  in  my  haud  I  would  have  put  him  that  in- 
vented whitewash  to  even  a  feller  death  than  that  which  I 
would  have  inflicted  on  the  twin-demons  who  brought  up 
gunpowder  and  electricity  from  hell's  lowest  pit.  At  the 
foot  of  a  long,  stern  hill  the  village  humbly  crouches,  while 
round  it  stand  a  silent,  solemn  conclave  of  great  mountains 
— white-snow  spires  reaching  heavenward — God's  church- 
steeples  ;  while  far  off  a  gray-green  glacier  dimly  shines. 
O  mighty  mountains !  you  coldly  awe  me  with  your 

"  aloof  and  loveless  permanence." 

The  trees  cluster  in  the  valley,  but  the  great  hills  stand 
bareheaded  before  God.  Here  we  are  at  the  little  Hotel 
de  la  Croix  Blanche,  having  taken  root  among  the  white- 
wash. We  have  been  here  a  week,  and  we  have  yawned 
a  good  deal.  The  season  has  hardly  begun — at  least  for 
the  English — and  it  has  rained  an  infinity.  We  have  even 
had  the  doubtful  pleasure  of  seeing  flakes  of  unseasonable 
snow.  There  are  no  books  to  be  got,  and  we  have  ex 
hausted  our  few  Tauchnitz  novels.  To-day  we  have  grown 
tired  of  our  own  sitting-room,  and  have  strayed  objectless- 
ly  up  to  the  general  salon  at  the  top  of  the  house.  It  is  a 
bare,  light  room,  whitewashed,  of  course.  A  carpet  would 
be  pleasant  to-day,  but  no  rag  of  carpet  is  there;  only 
aggressively-clean  squares  of  deal,  intersected  with  red- 
pine.  There  has  been  a  wedding-party  in  the  house  all 
day;  their  all-pervading  din  and  to  us  incomprehensible 
Romansch  mirth  have  had  a  large  share  in  driving  us  up- 
ward. It  is  afternoon  now,  and,  thank  God,  they  are  gone  ! 
We  have  been  standing  out  in  the  balcony,  watching  their 
departure,  as  they  pack  themselves  into  their  shabby-hood- 
ed carriages,  garlanded  with  dusty  green  wreaths.  Yes, 
they  are  gone ;  the  arm  of  each  gawky  youth,  with  osten- 
tatious candor,  clasping  the  solid  waist  of  his  maiden. 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SATS.  373 

Now  that  they  are  gone,  Sylvia  retires  inside,  grumbling 
and  shivering. 

"  Had  not  you  better  go  in,  too  ? "  I  say  to  Lenore ; 
"  it  is  very  damp.  You  will  never  get  well  if  you  do  not 
take  more  care  of  yourself." 

"  Why  should  I  get  well  ?  "  she  says,  querulously.  "  I 
do  not  want  to  get  well ;  what  object  in  life  should  I  have 
if  I  were  well  ?  Being  ill  is  something  to  do.  I  can  be 
interested  in  my  symptoms  and  my  tonics ;  I  would  not 
be  well  for  worlds." 

I  look  at  her  compassionately — at  her  sharpened  pro- 
file ;  it  is  getting  a  look  of  pinched  and  suffering  discon- 
tent. Where  is  its  lovely  debonair  roundness  ?  Alas  ! 
even  since  we  left  Bergun  it  has  been  slipping — oh,  how 
quickly  ! — away  ! 

"  You  may  get  me  a  shawl  if  you  like,"  she  says,  pres- 
ently, "  and  a  chair." 

I  reenter  the  salon  to  fetch  them.  Sylvia  is  sitting 
with  the  landlord's  book  of  dried  plants  before  her,  lament- 
ably turning  over  the  leaves.  At  the  best  of  times  noth- 
ing can  be  more  melancholy  than  a  dried  flower — a  color- 
less skeleton,  without  any  likeness  to  itself.  One  ought 
to  be  in  the  best  of  spirits  to  look  at  such  a  collection  as  is 
now  engaging  Mrs.  Prodgers's  slack  attention.  I  return 
with  the  shawl — a  heavy  and  warm  one — and  wrap  it 
about  my  youngest  sister,  and  then  remain  by  her  side, 
vacantly  gazing  at  the  view.  The  rain  has  ceased,  but  the 
clouds  still  hide  the  top  of  the  glacier-mountain ;  one  tiny 
cloudlet  has  lost  its  way,  and  is  wandering  about  near  the 
hill-foot,  slowly  evaporating,  and  losing  its  thin  life.  The 
balcony  where  we  are  is  much  higher  than  the  opposite 
houses;  it  can  look  magnificently  down  on  their  roofs. 
They  are  a  queer  little  row ;  not  in  a  line  at  all,  but  each 
seeming  to  be  shoving  and  elbowing  its  neighbor,  in  order 


874  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

to  get  forwardest;  in  the  narrow  street  below  a  man  is 
leaning  against  a  door-post,  smoking  a  long  pipe ;  another 
is  sweeping  the  round  stones  of  the  pavement  with  a 
besom.  Nor  can  one  possibly  get  up  any  interest  in  either 
of  them. 

"  I  do  not  think  Kolb  behaved  quite  honestly  about 
this  place,"  says  Sylvia's  voice  dolorously,  from  the  inte- 
rior ;  "  somehow  one  never  can  get  foreigners  to  speak 
quite  the  truth — he  certainly  told  me  distinctly,  when  I 
asked  him,  that  one  might  always  wear  demi-saison  dresses 
here." 

We  are  both  too  much  depressed  to  join  even  in  abuse 
of  Kolb's  mendacity.  Several  more  leaves  turned  over;  a 
heavy  sigh. 

"  I  wish  the  Websters  were  here  ;  they  talked  of  going 
abroad  this  summer.  I  will  write  and  advise  them  to  come 
here." 

"  Rather  a  case  of  the  fox  that  had  lost  his  tail,"  I  say, 
laughing  dismally. 

"  Tell  them  not  to  bring  any  demi-saison  dresses,"  sub- 
joins Lenore,  sarcastically. 

Several  moments  of  forlorn  silence.  Sylvia  has  finished 
her  book,  and  with  a  vague  and  mistaken  idea  that  we 
have  got  some  little  piece  of  amusement  that  we  are  pri- 
vately worrying  without  giving  her  information  of  it,  she 
issues  forth  a  second  time  and  joins  us.  We  are  all  in  a 
row,  like  three  storks  standing  on  one  leg  on  a  house-top. 
The  cloudlet  has  quite  melted ;  there  is  not  a  trace  of  it. 
I  wish  I  could  melt  too.  The  man  has  stopped  sweeping. 
Suddenly — no,  not  suddenly — gradually  a  sound  of  distant 
wheels  and  bells  salutes  our  ears.  A  vehicle  of  some  kind 
is  approaching  at  a  brisk  trot  from  the  direction  of  Samaden. 

"  Coming  here,  do  you  think  ?  "  I  say,  with  a  spark  of 
animation  shooting,  as  I  feel,  from  my  lack-lustre  eye. 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  875 

"  No  such  luck,"  answers  Lenore,  gloomily. 

"  No  doubt  it  is  going  on  to  c  The  Krone,5  "  says  Syl- 
via, peevishly.  "  Everybody  goes  to  '  The  Krone.'  I  wish 
we  had  gone  there.  It  was  all  Kolb's  doing." 

The  bells  ring  louder,  the  horses'  hoofs  stamp  the  stones 
more  distinctly;  it  is  in  sight.  Yes,  a  carriage,  twin- 
brother  to  our  own  late  one,  only  that  it  is  shut  on  account 
of  the  weather ;  four  horses,  piles  of  luggage,  dusty  tarpau- 
lin. A  moment  of  breathless  suspense ;  we  all  lean  over 
the  balcony  as  far  as  our  necks  and  heads  will  take  us. 
Yes ! — no  ! — yes  !  Far  down  in  the  street,  right  under  our 
eager  eyes,  it  is  pulling  up. 

"  My  heart  was  in  my  mouth !  "  says  Lenore,  smiling  a 
broad  smile  of  relief.  "  I  thought  it  was  going  on  to  '  The 
Krone. ' " 

"  We  are  too  high  up  here,"  I  say,  excitedly ;  "  we 
should  see  better  from  our  own  windows." 

^ 

Hereupon  we  all  rush  violently,  helter-skelter,  down- 
stairs to  our  sitting-room,  which  is  on  a  lower  floor.  Only 
one  window  gives  upon  the  street ;  it  is  small,  but  we  all 
huddle  into  it.  M.  Enderlin,  the  landlord,  letting  down 
the  steps ;  Madame  Enderlin  courtseying ;  Marie  and  Men- 
ga  hovering  near,  ready  to  carry  out  parcels.  ' 

"  JIaid,  of  course,"  I  say,  as  the  first  occupant  slowly 
emerges.  "  She  looks  rather  wet ;  evidently  she  was  in 
the  coupe  with  the  courier,  and  they  only  took  her  inside 
because  it  rained." 

A  man's  legs  and  a  wide-awake,  then  a  great  deal  of 
golden  hair  and  a  plump,  smart  woman's  figure.  Being 
above  them,  we  see  none  of  their  faces. 

"  Nothing  looks  so  nice  for  travelling  as  those  French 
lawns,  trimmed  with  unbleached  Cluny,"  says  Sylvia,  with 
pensive  envy ;  "  they  never  show  the  dust." 

"Bride  and  bridegroom,"  say  I.     "  What  a  bore !  They 


3T6  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

will  not  do  us  much  good ;  they  will  be  swallowed  up  in 
one  another." 

"  They  look  like  people,  however,"  says  Sylvia,  by  which 
expression  she  means  to  intimate  a  favorable  opinion  of  the 
new-comers'  gentility.  "  If  they  are  nice,"  she  continues, 
"  I  mean,  really  people  that  one  would  like  to  know — and 
Kolb  could  easily  find  out  that — we  might  make  a  party  to 
go  up  Piz  Languard  with  them." 

"  There  is  some  one  else  with  them,"  cry  I,  eagerly. 
"Surely  they  cannot  have  taken  their  parents  to  chaperone 
them ! " 

"  Like  the  people  at  Dinan,"  says  Lenore,  dryly,  "  who 
went  a  wedding-tour  d  Vanglaise,  and  took  the  bride's 
mother  and  the  bridegroom's  with  them." 

A  fat  but  nicely-booted  female  foot  slowly  treads  the 
step,  and  then  the  ground ;  it  and  its  fellow  support  a  form 
of  sliapely,  mature  portliness.^  Having  descended,  this  last 
figure  lifts  its  face  to  look  at  the  little  cross  swinging  out 
as  the  inn-sign  in  the  street. 

"  Good  Heavens  ! "  cries  Lenore,  emphatically. 

"  Why  that  pious  ejaculation  ?  "  say  I,  gayly,  my  spirits 
having  gone  up  fifty  per  cent,  at  the  prospect  of  human 
companionship. 

"Did  not  you  see?"  breaks  out  Lenore,  excitedly. 
"  Do  not  you  know  who  they  are  ?  " 

"Not  I.     How  should  I?" 

"  Why,  old  Mrs.  Scrope,  to  be  sure — Charlie's  mother." 

"What !  all  three  of  them?  "  I  say,  derisively.  "  My 
dear  child,  you  are  dreaming."* 

"  Impossible  ! "  says  Sylvia,  straining  her  little  neck  out 
of  the  window  to  catch  a  last  glimpse ;  but  they  are  gone. 
"  You  have  such  a  mania  for  seeing  likenesses  that  no  one 
else  can!  How  could  you  tell?  one  only  saw  their 
backs." 


WHAT  JfiMIMA  SAYS.  377 

"  And  should  not  I  know  my  own  mother-in-law's  back 
among  a  hundred  ?  "  says  Lenore,  with  sardonic  mirth. 

"  Oh,  if  it  was  only  her  back,"  I  say,  with  a  sigh  of 
relief,  "  I  do  not  mind ;  all  old  women's  backs  are  much 
alike." 

"  Are  they  ?  "  says  Lenore,  with  a  grim  smile.  "  I  do 
not  agree  with  you ;  there  are  backs  and  backs ;  but  I  do 
not  confine  myself  to  backs — I  saw  her  face,  and  my  ex- 
mother-in-law's  it  was,  I  am  sorry  to  say." 

"  And  the  other  two  were  the  married  daughter  and  her 
husband,  I  suppose  ?  "  I  say,  a  painful  conviction  that  Le- 
nore is  speaking  truth  forcing  itself  on  my  mind.  "  Now 
that  I  think  of  it,  there  was  something  familiar  to  me  in 
the  broad  gold  arrow  she  wore  in  her  hair." 

Silence  for  a  few  moments,  while  we  stare  at  one  anoth- 
er blankly. 

"  I  wish  they  liad  gone  on  to  '  The  Krone '  now,"  says 
Lenore,  dryly. 

"  If  we  wait  to  go  up  Piz  Languard  till  we  go  up  with 
them,"  I  say,  with  a  vexed  laugh,  "  we  shall  remain  some 
time  at  the  foot,  I  think." 

"  Sow  glad  they  will  be  to  see  us !  "  cries  Lenore, 
breaking  out  into  violent  merriment,  that  does  not,  how- 
ever, express  any  equally  violent  enjoyment,  "  considering 
that  last  time  they  saw  us  they  left  us  with  the  Elizabethan 
sentiment  that  '  God  might  forgive  us,  but  they  never 
would,'  or  words  to  that  effect." 

"  I  declare  I  do  not  know  what  you  are  laughing  at," 
says  Sylvia,  pettishly,  with  her  eyes  full  of  tears ;  "  it  is  a 
great  thing  to  be  easily  amused ;  as  for  me,  I  see  nothing 
amusing  in  it !  This  sort  of  thing  never  happens  to  any 
one  but  me ;  really  good  people,  that  one  would  have  liked 
to  know  en  intimes — " 

"  Listen,"  I  say,  leaving  the  window  and  approaching 


378  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

the  door,  "  they  are  coming  up !  I  hear  Madame  Enderlin's 
voice." 

"  We  shall  be  always  meeting  them  on  the  stairs,"  says 
Sylvia,  lachrymosely,  "  and  I  declare  I  shall  no  more  know 
how  to  behave — very  likely  they  will  take  their  cue  from 
me — whether  to  stop  and  shake  hands,  or  bow  and  pass 
on—" 

"  Stop  and  shake  hands  with  the  man — bow  and  pass 
on  to  the  women,"  says  Lenore,  promptly ;  "  men  are  al- 
ways kind." 

" As  for  you"  retorts  Sylvia,  turning  upon  her  with  a 
tearful  spitefulness,  "  in  your  case  there  can  be  no  difficulty ; 
they  will  cut  you,  of  course,  out  and  out — dead — and  real- 
ly, considering  all  things,  one  cannot  blame  them." 

"  Of  course  they  will,"  replies  Lenore,  calmly,  though 
her  color  deepens ;  "  I  should  think  very  meanly  of  them 
if  they  did  not." 

"And  you"  (speaking  very  rapidly,  while  the  large 
tears  still  roll  helplessly  down  her  cheeks),  "  what  will  you 
do  ?  how  will  you  take  it  ?  " 

"  Do  f  "  says  Lenore,  with  a  little  dry  laugh ;  "  what  is 
there  to  do  ?  I  shall  be  cut,  I  suppose,  and  try  to  look  as 
if  I  liked  it." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

WHAT     JEMIMA     SATS. 

"  MADAME  est  servie  !  "  says  Menga,  half  an  hour  later, 
opening  my  door,  and  putting  her  head  in. 

"  Do  not  go  without  me ! "  cries  Sylvia,  eagerly ;  "  wait 
for  me.  Did  you  ever  see  anybody  so  silly  as  I  ?  I  am 
trembling  all  over — like  a  leaf — feel ! " 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SATS.  379 

"  Lenore  is  not  quite  ready,"  I  say. 

"  We  will  go  without  her,"  rejoins  Sylvia,  quickly ; 
why  should  not  we  ?  They  will  be  more  likely  to  speak  to 
us  if  she  is  not  by." 

I  shrug  my  shoulders.  "  I  suppose  one  must  begin  to 
be  civilized  again,"  continues  my  sister,  holding  out  one 
plump  and  shapely  arm  for  me  to  clasp  a  bracelet  on.  "  It 
is  astonishing  how  soon  one  gets  out  of  the  way  of  it ! 
Certainly  it  is  cold ;  but  bundled  up  in  a  shawl  one  looks 
as  if  one  had  no  more  shape  than  the  Tun  of  Heidelberg." 

We  descend.  The  few  visitors  are  collecting  in  the 
hard-scrubbed  salle  d  manger  round  the  snow-white  table. 

"  How  my  heart  is  beating  ! "  says  Sylvia,  as  we  stand 
at  the  door  about  to  enter ;  "  look  and  see  whether  they 
are  down  yet." 

I  peep.  "  Yes,  there  they  are ;  and,  as  ill-luck  will  have 
it,  their  places  are  next  ours  ;  you  need  not  have  taken  off 
your  shawl;  they  have  both  shawls,  and  the  husband — 
what  is  his  name  ? — I  never  can  recollect — Lascelles,  is  not 
it  ? — is  in  his  great-coat.  There  is  no  help  for  it ;  if  we 
wish  for  food,  we  must  go  into  the  lion's  jaws  to  get  it." 

As  we  approach,  it  becomes  evident  to  us  that  the  fact 
of  our  presence  has  been  previously  revealed  to  the  new- 
comers. As  we  reach  the  table  they  just  look  up,  and 
bow — gravely  and  slightly,  it  is  true  ;  but  still  they  bow. 
Old  Mrs.  Scrope  holds  her  little  hooked  nose — gently,  not 
Jewishly  hooked — rather  more  aloft  than  usual,  gathers  her 
shawl  with  a  chilly  gesture  about  her,  and  says  across  the 
table  to  her  daughter : 

"  I  wonder  why  they  do  not  light  the  stove  ?  " 

Mr.  Lascelles  rises  and  shakes  hands  heartily,  and  says  : 

"  How  are  you  ?  Deuced  cold,  is  not  it  ?  How  long 
have  you  been  here  ?  " 

Everybody  but  Lenore  is  down;  the  little  bourgeois 


380  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

German  family — father,  mother,  two  daughters,  the  mild 
and  havering  English  old  maid  in  noisome  cameo  brooch 
and  hair  bracelet,  who  spends  her  life  in  marauding  about 
the  Continent  in  virgin  loveliness ;  the  Cantab,  who  has 
been  climbing  every  high  mountain  in  the  neighborhood, 
till  all  the  skin  is  peeling  off  his  blistered,  scarlet  face — 
here  they  are,  all  of  them,  eating  soup,  if  you  like  to  call  it 
soup,  after  his  several  manner.  It  is  weak  and  nasty  stuff 
enough,  one  would  think,  but  apparently  too  strong  for  the 
German  stomachs ;  at  least,  having  nearly  finished  their 
share,  they  call  for  hot  water,  pour  some  into  their  plates, 
and  begin  to  ladle  it  up  into  their  mouths. 

"  I  had  better  go  and  call  Lenore,"  I  say  aloud  to  Syl- 
via, purposely  speaking  the  obnoxious  name  to  see  what 
effect  it  will  produce.  "  I  cannot  think  what  has  become 
of  her." 

As  I  speak  she  enters.  As  she  comes  hurriedly  across 
the  room  with  a  sort  of  nervous  defiance  in  her  face,  I  look 
at  her  curiously,  trying  to  see  her  as  a  stranger  would. 
Surely  there  can  be  nothing  very  provocative  of  wrath — of 
conciliation,  rather — in  her  altered  look.  Even  to  me,  who 
have  watched  her  daily,  hourly,  she  seems  ill,  shrunken, 
drooped.  How  much  more  to  them  who  have  not  seen  her 
since — six  months  ago — she  shone  upon  them  in  the  healthy 
bloom  of  her  delicate  ripe  beauty  !  Poor  soul !  Now  that 
her  strength  is  gone  and  her  fairness  waned,  can  they  be 
angry  with  her  still  ?  As  they  rather  feel  than  see  her  ap- 
proach, I  am  sensible  of  a  sort  of  ladylike  stiffening  and 
drawing  up  on  the  part  of  the  two  women. 

Mr.  Lascelles  is  fully  occupied  in  making  faces  at  his 
soup.  The  dead  cut  Sylvia  predicted  is  imminent.  As  she 
slips  into  her  seat,  the  only  one  left — one  next  Mrs.  Las- 
celles— with  eyes  determinedly  downcast,  and  an  uneasy 
red  look,  half  challenging,  half  deprecatory,  on  her  face, 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  381 

curiosity  gets  the  better  of  their  dignity,  and  they  both 
glance  at  her.  I  see  them  both  start  perceptibly,  Yes, 
they  have  noticed  it  too.  Alas  !  the  change  is  too  patent 
to  escape  the  carelessest,  hostilest  eye.  With  a  sudden  im- 
pulse they  both  bow,  as  they  had  bowed  to  us,  slightly, 
unsmilingly,  without  the  smallest  attempt  at  cordiality,  but 
still  quite  politely. 

"  Deuced  cold,  is  not  it  ?  "  says  Mr.  Lascelles,  turning 
with  an  air  of  the  greatest  friendliness  to  Sylvia ;  man-like, 
happily  and  sublimely  ignoring  the  squabbles  of  his  wom- 
ankind ;  and,  rubbing  his  hands,  "  when  last  I  saw  you,  it 
was  deuced  cold  too  ;  we  were  as  nearly  as  possible  snowed 
up  on  our  way  back  to  London  —  do  you  remember, 
Blanche?" 

At  this  happy  allusion  to  our  last  merry  meeting  we  all 
wax  deeply,  darkly,  beautifully  red. 

"  Is  it  always  cold  here  ?  "  asks  Mrs.  Lascelles,  rushing 
hurriedly,  and  quite  contrary  to  her  original  intention,  as  I 
feel,  into  conversation  with  me. 

"  It  has  been  cold  since  we  came,  but  we  are  hardly 
fair  judges  yet ;  we  have  only  been  here  a  week ;  I  am  told 
that  it  is  a  remarkably  healthy  climate,"  I  answer,  stiffly 
and  tritely ;  my  besetting  sin  always  being  a  tendency  to 
sink  into  an  echo  of  Murray. 

"  It  has  been  arctic !  "  says  Sylvia,  to  her  neighbor, 
with  a  plaintive  upcasting  of  her  eyes  to  his  face,  "  posi- 
tively arctic  !  How  I  envy  your  great-coat ! — nothing  so 
pretty  as  beaver  "  (stroking  it  delicately) ;  "  naturally,  we 
left  all  our  furs  behind  us." 

"One  peculiarity  of  the  climate,"  say  I,  addressing 
everybody,  in  a  monotonous  recitative,  "is,  that  meat 
killed  in  the  autumn  dries  of  itself  in  the  course  of  the  win- 
ter ;  it  is  considered  an  excellent  thing  for  making  blood, 
and  looks  like  sausage." 


882  "GOOD-BYF,  SWEETHEART!" 

"Is  not  it  too  cold  for  you?"  Mrs.  Lascelles  asks, 
pointedly  addressing  her  question  to  Lenore,  and  speaking 
with  a  compassionate  inflection  in  her  voice. 

Lenore  blushes  furiously. 

"  For  me  !  "  she  says,  stammering,  and  looking  surprised, 
"  for — for  all  of  us  ;  we  all  shiver." 

No  one  makes  any  rejoinder. 

"  It  is  a  wonderful  climate  for  consumption,  I  believe," 
continues  Lenore,  speaking  hurriedly  and  hesitatingly,  as 
if  not  at  all  sure  of  the  reception  a  speech  from  her  may 
meet  with.  "  A  clergyman  in  the  last  stage  came  to  St. 
Moritz  last  year,  and  is  now  quite  recovered ;  not "  (look- 
ing round  with  a  nervous  laugh)  "  that  that  need  be  any 
great  recommendation  to  any  of  us,  I  hope." 

Again  they  look  at  her,  with  an  unwilling  startled  pity 
in  their  healthy,  prosperous  faces.  The  German  father  is 
dexterously  whisking  his  beef-gravy  into  his  mouth  on  the 
blade  of  his  knife,  at  the  imminent  risk  of  slitting  his 
countenance  from  ear  to  ear ;  the  Cantab  is  reluctantly  turn- 
ing his  peeled  nose  and  flayed  cheeks  to  the  old  maid,  who, 
gently  blinking  behind  her  spectacles,  is  addressing  him. 

"  A  happy  deliverance ! "  cries  Sjrlvia,  stretching  her- 
self on  the  sofa  in  our  sitting-room,  when  at  length  we 
attained  that  haven,  dinner  being  ended.  "  Nothing  pros- 
trates one  so  much  as  these  little  social  ordeals  !  Did  you 
see  how  I  cultivated  the  husband?  I  do  not  think  they 
quite  liked  it." 

I  am  looking  out  of  window,  and  contemplating  Mr. 
Lascelles's  back,  as  he  stands  on  the  door-step  talking  to 
Kolb,  and  banging  his  arms  together  like  a  cabman,  to  keep 
them  warm.  I  can  feel,  by  the  expression  of  his  shoulders, 
that  he  is  for  the  third  time  remarking  that  "  it  is  deuced 
cold." 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAY8.  383 

"  If  he  had  his  own  way,  he  would  be  always  with  us, 
in  and  out,  in  and  out,"  continues  Sylvia ;  "  one  can  foresee 
that.  But  no  doubt  he  will  not  be  let" 

"  What  a  thing  it  is  to  be  thin  !  "  cries  Lenore,  with  a 
rather  bitter  little  laugh.  "  If  I  had  been  fat  and  well-look- 
ing, they  would  have  cut  me  dead.  If  I  gain  in  favor  in  the 
same  ratio  in  which  I  lose  in  flesh,  they  will  soon  be  thor- 
oughly fond  of  me."  I  turn  from  the  window  with  a  sigh 
at  this  speech.  u  There  is  something  very  affecting  in  hav- 
ing a  thing  like  a  bird's-claw  held  out  to  you,  is  not 
there  ?  "  continues  she,  looking  with  a  sort  of  pensive  deris- 
ion at  her  own  hand,  first  opening  it,  and  then  clinching  it, 
to  see  how  strongly  the  knuckles  and  bones  start  out. 

"  Do  not !  "  I  say,  crossly.     "  I  wish  you  would  not !  " 

"  In  books,"  continues  she,  "  whenever  people  on  their 
death-beds  lift  up  their  thin  hands,  or  hold  out  their  thin 
hands,  one  always  begins  to  cry,  don't  you  know  ? "  I 
laugh,  but  not  very  jocundly.  "If  they  could  hear  the 
way  in  which  I  cough  at  night,  I  am  not  sure  that  they 
would  not  kiss  me,"  says  the  young  girl,  with  a  "sarcastic 
smile. 

"  How  extraordinarily  like  Charlie  his  sister  is  ! "  says 
Sylvia,  sitting  up  on  the  sofa.  "  What  are  you  looking  at, 
Jemima  ?  Any.  new  arrivals  ?  Thoroughly  don  genre  they 
all  look.  Say  what  you  will,  blood  must  show." 

"As  the  old  maid  said  when  her  nose  got  red,"  retorts 
Lenore. 

"  A  plain  likeness,  of  course,"  pursues  Sylvia,  not 
deigning  to  heed  this  profane  illustration.  "  Blanche  Las- 
celles  is  too  much  of  a  peace-and-plenty-looking  woman 
to  please  me — too  redundant,  don't  you  know  ?  I  confess 
to  liking  to  see  people  keep  within  bounds ;  but  she  is 
growing  so  enormously  large,  she  will  soon  be  all  over 
everywhere." 


384  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

"  Perhaps  it  is  bon  genre  to  spread,"  says  Lenore,  mock- 
ingly ;  "  who  knows  ?  " 

"  She  put  me  so  much  in  mind  of  him  that  it  was  on 
the  tip  of  my  tongue  to  ask  after  him,"  continues  Mrs. 
Prodgers. 

"  I  am  very  glad  it  remained  on  the  tip." 

"  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  he  was  here,"  says  Sylvia, 
continuing  her  monologue  and  yawning.  "I  wonder  is 
there  any  chance  of  it  ?  One  abuses  them  when  one  has 
them,  but  certainly  life — travelling-life  especially — is  very 
triste  without  a  man." 

"  Do  you  wish  it  too,  Lenore  ?  "  I  ask,  walking  over  to 
where  my  youngest  sister  is  listlessly  lying  back  in  the 
one  arm-chair  that  the  room  affords. 

"  How  do  I  know  ?  "  she  answers,  in  a  tone  of  weary 
irritability.  "  I  wish  a  hundred  things  one  half  of  the  day 
which  I  unwish  the  other  half.  No,  certainly  I  do  not — 
not  until  I  get  my  looks  up  again.  Jemima  "  (gazing  wist- 
fully up  at  me),  "how  long  do  you  think  it  will  be  before 
I  do?" 

"  My  dear,  am  I  a  prophet  ?  "  I  say,  very  sadly,  strok- 
ing her  hair. 

"  Evidently  they  thought  me  very  much  gone  off,  did 
not  they  ?  "  she  asks,  with  her  eyes  still  fixed  on  my  face, 
and  a  faint,  a  very  faint  hope  of  contradiction  in  her  own. 

"  How  do  I  know  ?  "  I  reply,  evasively.  "  If  they  had 
thought  so,  they  would  hardly  have  chosen  me  to  confide 
it  to." 

"  But  they  did,"  returns  she,  gently,  shaking  her  head. 
"  As  Sylvia  says,  one  has  one's  instincts."  (A  moment's 
silence.)  "  Who  was  it  ?  "  she  continues,  with  a  melan- 
choly smile ;  "  Madame  du  Barri,  was  not  it,  who  said  that 
she  would  rather  be  dead  than  ugly  ?  Pah  ! "  (with  a 
shudder),  "it  would  be  very  disagreeable  to  be  either." 


WHAT  JEMIMA   SAYS.  385 


CHAPTER  Y. 

"  The  gods  may  release 

That  they  made  fast ; 
Thy  soul  shall  have  ease 

In  thy  limbs  at  the  last.; 
But  what  shall  they  give  thee  for  life,  sweet  life,  that  is  overpast  ?  " 

WHAT     JEMIMA     SATS. 

AT  last  it  is  summer  to-day  ;  the  sun  says,  "  Now  it  is 
my  turn  !  "  With  his  strong  right  hand,  he  has  swept  the 
clouds  away  from  the  snow-peaks  —  away — away — any- 
where ;  he  will  have  none  of  them.  Those  snow-peaks  ! 
They  dazzle  one  so  that  one  cannot  look  at  them,  save 
through  blue  spectacles.  It  makes  one's  eyes  drop  water 
but  to  glance  hastily  at  their  shining  magnificence.  Oh, 
happy  consummation !  it  is  too  hot  even  for  demi-saison 
dresses. 

"  I  think  Kolb  is  very  tyrannical !  "  says  Sylvia,  discon- 
tentedly. "  What  do  I  care  about  the  water-fall,  or  the 
Mortiratsch  glacier  ?  After  all,  when  you  have  seen  one 
glacier,  you  have  seen  them  all ;  and  though  nobody  can 
be  fonder  of  scenery  than  I  am,  yet  of  course  there  are 
other  things  in  the  world  ;  I  had  much  rather  have  stayed 
at  home  to-day  and  found  out  what  the  Scropes'  plans 
were." 

We  were  all  joggling  along  in  a  little  chaise,  drawn  by 
a  fat  pony,  which,  however,  is  so  far  from  us  as  to  be  al- 
most out  of  sight,  from  the  length  of  the  traces — jiggling, 
joggling  along  through  Pontresina,  between  the  green 
sheltered  white  houses  ;  here  and  there  a  flourish  of  flowers 
— geraniums,  cinerarias — out  of  their  windows ;  through 
the  upper  village,  and  along  the  hot  high-road.  On  each 
17 


386  "QOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

side  of  us  is  the  lovely  riot  of  the  meadow-flowers ;  they 
seem  to  have  rushed  out,  all  at  once,  and  all  together,  to 
answer  to  their  names  at  the  roll-call  of  the  spring  sun. 

"  At  all  events,"  say  I,  laughing,  "  Mr.  Lascelles  can- 
not say  that  it  is  '  deuced  cold  '  to-day.  Pah  !  how  apo- 
plectic it  makes  one's  head  !  Oh,  for  a  good  honest  British 
cabbage-leaf  to  put  in  one's  hat !  " 

"  There  is  one  comfort,"  says  Sylvia,  pursuing  her  own 
thoughts,  "  and  that  is,  that  there  is  no  one  they  can  be- 
come lies  with,  in  our  absence,  as  I  should  think  that  they 
were  sociable,  sensible  sort  of  people,  who  cordially  hated 
their  own  society." 

"  Worse  even  than  ours  ?  "  asks  Lenore,  with  a  cynical 
smile,  from  beneath  the  dusty  little  hood  under  which  she 
is  leaning  back. 

We  leave  the  high-road ;  we  turn  into  a  by-way  that 
leads  to  the  glacier — leads  through  a  company  of  larches. 
They  have  grown  up,  here  and  there,  among  the  great 
strewn  stones,  of  every  shape  and  size  —  lichen-grown, 
green,  forbidding.  By-and-by  we  have  to  say  good-bye  to 
our  carriage  ;  it  can  go  no  farther ;  the  road  breaks  off. 

"  This  is  quite  the  most  triste  festivity  I  ever  assisted 
at,"  Sylvia  says  plaintively,  as  we  dawdle  and  loiter  hotly 
along. 

"  Bah !  how  the  midges  bite  !  As  a  rule,  no  one  is 
more  independent  of  men's  society  than  I  am,  but  in  a  case 
of  this  kind  a  man  is  indispensable  to  give  a  sort  of  im- 
petus, a  fillip,  to  the  whole  thing." 

"  Let  us  have  luncheon,"  say  I,  with  my  usual  material 
view  of  things ;  "  eating  always  raises  one's  spirits,  and 
we  can  eat  as  well  as  if  a  regiment  were  looking  on." 

So  we  lunch  on  the  short  sward.  The  smooth,  smoke- 
colored  cattle  are  ringing  their  bells  vigorously,  as  they 
browse  near  us,  though  what  they  eat  the  Lord  only  knows, 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SATS.  387 

unless  they  have  a  taste  for  yellow  potentillas,  sweet- 
scented  daphne,  and  dry  white  bents.  Kolb  has  stretched 
a  mackintosh  for  us  to  sit  on,  and  brought  spiced-beef  that 
looks  weirdly  nasty,  in  sun-warmed  slices,  out  of  a  marmot- 
skin  bag ;  rolls,  hard-boiled  eggs.  A  bottle  of  Chateau 
Margot  stands  under  a  great  rock,  knee-deep  in  yellow  vio- 
lets. The  glacier  river,  the  Bernina,  runs  madly  past  us, 
hoarsely  raving  to  its  wide  stone  bed,  in  a  torrent  of  dirty 
yellow-green-white.  There  we  lie,  couched  comfortably  as 
ruminating  cattle,  while  at  our  elbows  and  feet  the  gen- 
tians open  their  blue  eyes — bluer  than  any  woman's,  deeper 
than  any  sapphire. 

"  How  pretty  they  would  be  if  artificial ! "  Sylvia  says, 
pensively  plucking  one.  "  A  spray  for  the  side  of  the  head, 
you  know,  and  another  for  the  corsage ;  I  am  afraid  we  are 
too  far  oif  for  it  to  carry  well,  or  I  would  send  one  to 
Foster's  in  a  tin  box ;  he  will  always  copy  any  flower  you 
send  him,  exactly." 

"Perish  the  thought !  "  says  Lenore,  with  a  sort  of  lazy 
indignation,  laying  her  head  down  among  a  crowded  little 
family  of  the  yellow  violets,  under  a  great  split  rock. 

"  Dark  blue  is  not  a  good  night-color,  however,"  says 
Sylvia,  still  pursuing  her  own  train  of  meditation. 

"  How  drowsy  the  river's  roar  makes  one  ! "  I  say, 
yawning,  and  burying  my  hot  face  in  my  outstretched 
arms ;  "  if  you  two  will  not  speak,  I  shall  be  asleep  in  three 
minutes." 

"  How  hideous  it  is  ! "  says  Sylvia,  dropping  her  gen- 
tian, and  gazing  with  a  sort  of  disgust  at  the  tearing  flood. 
"  Glacier-rivers  always  are.  Did  you  ever  see  any  thing  so 
dirty  in  your  life  ?  It  looks  as  if  hundreds  and  thousands 
of  washer-women  had  been  washing  in  it  with  myriads  of 
cakes  of  soap ! " 

After  all,  we  never  reach  the  glacier.     If  luncheon  has 


388  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

cheered,  it  has  also  enervated  us.  We  content  ourselves 
with  languidly  strolling  to  the  water-fall.  Now  we  have 
reached  it ;  now  exertion  is  at  an  end ;  now  we  lie,  lazy  as 
lotus-eaters,  on  the  dry,  warm  herbage — scant,  yet  so 
sweet! — and  gaze  and  listen,  gaze  and  listen,  for  God 
knows  how  long,  to  the  loud,  white  beauty  of  the  fall. 
Down  it  comes  from  the  top  of  the  low  hill  in  one  long, 
snowy  plunge ;  then  a  smooth  sliding  over  the  polished 
backs  of  the  great  stones ;  a  curling  of  creamy  wavelets ; 
then  another  foamy  leap  in  lightning  and  froth ;  then  a 
green  pool,  where  the  sun  is  holding  dazzling  mirrors,  too 
bright  to  look  at,  to  the  pines'  dark  faces.  The  long  roar 
rings  loud  yet  gentle  in  our  ears,  bringing  to  us  a  drowsy 
joy.  Even  Sylvia's  grumblings  are  stilled — at  least  we  no 
longer  hear  them,  Lenore  and  I.  We  have  climbed  slowly 
and  intermittently  up  the  rocks  to  a  little  plateau,  whence 
we  can  see  the  water's  chiefest  plunge.  Who  can  stop  it  ? 
The  air  is  full  of  its  cold  white  powder ;  a  great  stone 
opposite  is  forever  wet  with  the  cool  damp  dust  drifted 
against  its  shining  sides.  Little  lilac  primulas  confidently 
grow  and  bloom  in  its  clefts.  O  torrents  and  hills  and 
flowers,  you  make  me  drunk  with  beauty !  What  can  be 
nobler  than  to  watch  the  play- of  God's  imagination  in 
these  silent  places  ? 

With  elbows  deep  sunk  in  gentians,  and  head  on  hand, 
we  lie  and  lie  and  lie,  till  the  sun  is  marching,  in  all  his 
afternoon  heat  and  mellow  glory,  through  the  pale  turquoise 
sky.  The  pines  above  our  heads  smell  divinely.  There  is 
no  flower,  however  sweet,  that  has  a  better  fragrance  than 
that  which  the  grave,  flowerless  firs  give  out  at  the  bidding 
of  their  master,  the  high  June  sun.  For  half-hours  hours — 
we  know  not  which — neither  of  us  has  spoken.  My  eyes 
have  long  been  fixed  on  the  little  rainbow  that  the  water- 
fall has  caught  and  held  fast,  with  its  faint  green  and 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  389 

yellow  and  red,  in  her  shining  toils.  Presently,  and  little 
by  little,  I  cease  to  see  the  tender  colors  of  the  prism — I 
cease  to  hear  the  water's  plunge  and  the  pines'  low  sigh ; 
I  am  asleep.  Whether  my  doze  is  long  or  short,  I  do  not 
know.  I  imagine,  however,  that  it  is  not  very  long ;  but 
it  is  broken  at  last  by  a  sharp  exclamation  from  Lenore. 

"  What  are  you  making  such  a  noise  about  ?  "  I  cry, 
starting  up  and  rubbing  my  eyes.  "  One  may  as  well  be 
killed  as  frightened  to  death Charlie  !  !  !  " 

Am  I  dreaming  still  ?  No ;  the  water-fall's  voice  has 
come  back  to  my  ears,  and  the  pines'  woody  fragrance  to 
my  nostrils.  Providence  has  granted  Sylvia's  prayer — for 
a  prayer  it  was ;  at  least,  it  fulfilled  the  hymn's  definition 

of  prayer: 

"Prayer  is  the  heart's  sincere  desire, 
Uttered  or  unexpressed." 

There  he  stands,  three  paces  from  me,  among  the  juni- 
per-bushes, solid  and  real,  in  the  loose  and  untinted  clothes 
that  summer  Britons  love — stands  there  in  all  the  stalwart, 
deep-colored  beauty  of  his  manhood.  Providence  has  sent 
us  a  man  "to  give  the  whole  thing  a  fillip."  Lenore  has 
risen  to  her  feet  and  is  facing  him.  Their  hands  are  not 
touching,  neither  are  they  speaking,  only  they  are  looking 
at  one  another  long  and  dumbly.  Embarrassment  at  the 
recollected  hostility  of  their  last  parting  is  tying  Lenore's 
tongue,  as  I  feel ;  but  what  is  it  that  is  giving  that  look  of 
silent,  painful  wonder  to  Scrope's  face  ? 

"  Why  are  you  looking  so  hard  at  me  ? "  she  says,  at 
last,  in  a  low  voice,  with  a  tremulous  asperity.  "  Is  there 
any  thing  odd  about  me?  Do  not  you  know  that  it  is  not 
good  manners  to  look  so  hard  at  any  one  ?  " 

"  I — I — beg  your  pardon,"  he  says,  stammering.  "  I — 
I — did  not  mean — you  see,  it  is  so  long  since  I  have  seen — " 

I  have  scrambled  to  my  feet  and  shaken  the  illicit  noon- 


390  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

day  sleep  from  my  eyes.  "  Charlie  ! "  I  cry  a  second  time, 
coming  forward ;  and,  not  being  a  person  with  any  great 
command  of  language,  I  add  nothing  to  the  pertinent 
brevity  of  this  observation. 

He  turns,  and  takes  my  ready  hand  in  the  cool,  familiar, 
brotherly  clasp  with  which,  in  their  day,  so  many  good  and 
handsome  men  have  honored  me,  and  for  which  I  have 
never  felt  the  least  grateful  to  them.  "Did  not  you 
know  I  was  coming  ? "  he  asks ;  "  did  not  they  tell 
you?" 

"  Not  they  ?  "  reply  I,  laughing.  "  To  let  you  into  a 
secret,  we  are  not  quite  on  confidential  terms — rather  en 
delicatesse,  as  you  may  say.  I  dare  say  they  thought  we 
were  not  good  enough  to  be  told  such  a  piece  of  news — 
that  it  would  exhilarate  us  too  much." 

"  They  were  nearly  right  there,  I  think,"  says  Sylvia, 
to  whom,  being  a  little  lower  down,  the  answer  to  her 
prayer  has  been  first  vouchsafed.  "  It  is  never  my  way,  as 
a  rule,  to  make  people  conceited — men  especially ;  I  am 
sure  they  are  bad  enough,  without  one's  helping  them ; 
but  certainly,  if  one  wishes  to  know  how  thoroughly  to 
appreciate  a  friend,  one  must  come  to  the  Engadine." 

"  You  are  glad  to  see  me,  then  ?  "  he  says,  stretching 
out  his  hand  to  her,  too,  with  a  broad,  eager  smile.  The 
question  seems  addressed  to  Sylvia,  but  his  eyes  seek  Le- 
nore.  "  Truly,  honestly,  without  figure  of  speech  ?  You 
know  I  had  my  doubts." 

"A  perfectly  unjustifiable  question,"  returns  Sylvia, 
giving  her  head  a  little,  playful  jerk.  "  We  totally  de- 
cline to  answer  it — do  not  we,  Jemima  ?  " 

"  And  you  !  "  he  says,  impulsively,  stooping  over  Le- 
nore,  and  lowering  his  voice  a  little. 

She  has  sat  down  again,  and,  leaning  on  her  elbow,  is 
listlessly  picking  a  bit  of  daphne  to  pieces:  the  little 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  391 

treacherous  color  that  his  first  sudden  coming  had  sent  into 
her  cheeks  ebbing  quickly  out  of  them  again. 

"17"  (with  a  little  start).  "Oh,  of  course— yes,  I 
think  so — I  suppose  so — why  should  not  I  be  ?  " 

Her  eyes  were  lifted  to  his ;  they  mean  to  be  kindly, 
but  they  have  of  late  got  a  settled  look  of  weary  noncha- 
lance, that  they  could  not,  if  they  would,  put  away. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  to  her?"  he  says,  leading 
me  a  little  away  from  the  others,  on  pretence  of  looking 
over  the  slender  plank  bridge  that  crosses  the  fall,  grasping 
my  arm,  and  staring  with  an  angry,  painful  vehemence  into 
my  face.  "  They  told  me  she  was  so  altered  that  I  should 
not  know  her  again — not  know  her  again!" — (with  an 
accent  of  scorn) — "  she  would  have  to  be  altered  indeed 
before  that  could  come  to  pass.  I  thought  they  only  said 
rit  to  set  me  against  her ;  that  was  why  I  followed  you.  I 
could  not  wait.  My  God !  she  is  changed  "  (loosing  my 
arm,  and  clinching  his  own  hands  together).  "  I  could  not 
have  believed  that  any  one — any  young,  strong  person — 
could  be  so  changed  in  five  months." 

I  do  not  answer,  for  the  excellent  reason  that  I  cannot. 
My  throat  is  choked,  and  my  silent  tears  drop  on  the  bridge- 
rail  and  into  the  emerald  pool  beneath.  One  must  love 
something.  I  have  not  had  many  people  to  love  in  my 
time ;  nobody  very  good,  or  that  love  me  much ;  and,  for 
want  of  them,  I  love  Lenore.  I  suppose  he  thinks  that 
my  speechlessness  comes  from  callous  indifference. 

"  You  have  taken  no  care  of  her,"  he  continues,  harsh- 
ly ;  "  you  have  not  looked  after  her.  When  did  she  ever 
look  after  herself  ?  You — who  are  so  much  older  than  she, 
that  one  would  have  thought  that  you  would  have  been 
like  a  mother  to  her." 

He  stops  abruptly.  She  of  whom  we  speak  has  risen 
and  followed  us. 


392  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  You  are  talking  about  me,"  she  says,  slightly  smiling. 
"  Yes,  you  both  look  guilty !  what  are  you  saying  ?  No,  I 
do  not  care  to  hear;  nothing  very  interesting,  I  dare  say." 

So  saying,  she  saunters  slowly  away  again. 

"  You  are  no  wiser  than  you  were ;  I  see  that,"  I  re- 
mark, smiling  away  my  tears,  and  trying  to  smile  when  we 
are  again  alone. 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  he  answers,  with  eager  quickness ; 
"  I  am  perfectly  cured — perfectly ;  and,  when  one  is  once 
thoroughly  cured  of  a  complaint  of  this  sort,  one  does  not 
sicken  again.  If  I  had  not  been  sure  of  that,  I  would  not 
have  come  near  you ;  I  would  have  put  the  width  of  all 
Europe  between  us." 

I  shake  my  head  in  a  silent  skepticism. 

"  See,"  he  cries,  earnestly,  "  do  you  remember  how  I 
used  to  tremble  all  over  if  my  hand  touched  hers  ? — how  I' 
grew  redder  than  any  lobster  if  she  spoke  to  me  ?     Do  I 
tremble  now  ? "  (stretching  out  his  right  hand  to  me) — 
"  am  I  red  ?  » 

Still  I  am  silent. 

"  Do  you  hear  ?  "  he  asks,  impatiently. 

"  Yes,"  I  answer,  dryly,  "  I  hear." 


CHAPTER   VI. 

"  I  feel  the  daisies  growing  over  me." 
WHAT     THE     ATJTHOK     SAYS. 

THEY  are  sitting,  they  two,  the  lover  and  the  loved 
one,  in  the  tiny  graveyard  of  the  little  church  upon  the 
hill.  They  have  risen  up  hastily  from  the  noisy  supper, 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  893 

where  the  fusty  German  mother  had  shut  the  window, 
where  the  fusty  German  daughters  had  made  weak  and 
steaming  negus  of  their  vin  ordinaire,  on  this  sultry  sum- 
mer evening.  They  two,  and  Jemima.  They  have  passed 
through  the  small,  still  street,  along  the  silent  road,  where 
even  the  dust  lies  quiet  and  white,  and  does  not  harry  one 
as  in  the  daytime  ;  up  the  lane,  past  cottages  and  fields,  to 
the  little  church  that  stands  below  the  rocky  mountain. 
Lenore  has  ridden ;  she  could  not  have  walked  so  far  up 
the  hill-side  ;  ridden  the  fat  pony,  "  a  beautiful  .pony,  just 
like  a  tea-pot,"  as  Kolb,  with  doubtful  compliment,  re- 
marked of  him.  Now  he  is  tied  to  the  church-porch,  and 
is  eating  forget-me-nots  in  the  evening  gray.  Jemima  has 
discreetly  strolled  away,  but  her  discretion  has  pleased  but 
one  of  her  companions;  the  other  has  hardly  noticed  it. 
It  is  all  one  to  Lenore  whether  she  goes  or  stays.  It  is 
eight  o'clock.  Pontresina  Church  is  telling  the  hour  sono- 
rously, and  the  little  hill-church  beside  her  is  answering 
with  its  one  grave  bell ;  the  church,  with  its  rude  stone 
tower  and  little  extinguisher  top,  its  windows  deep  set  in 
the  wall,  like  deep-sunk  eyes. 

"  Lenore,"  says  Scrope,  presently  plucking  a  great 
forget-me-not,  twice  the  size  of  those  we  see  in  England, 
from  one  of  the  low  graves,  "  do  you  think  it  wicked  to 
tell  lies?" 

"  It  depends,"  she  answers,  laughing  slightly.  "  I 
think  truth  is  rather  an  over-rated  virtue." 

"  I  told  a  gigantic  lie  yesterday." 

"  Did  you  ?  "  she  answers ;  but  she  does  not  seem  to 
care  to  ask  what  it  is. 

He  waits  a  moment,  but,  finding  that  her  curiosity  will 
not  come  to  his  aid,  volunteers  his  information. 

"  I — I — told  Jemima  that  I  was  perfectly  cured  "  (red- 
dening a  little). 


394  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  Yes,  that  was  not  quite  true,"  she  replies,  quietly. 

"  Are  you  glad  or  sorry  ?  "  he  asks,  eagerly. 

She  has  plucked  two  blades  of  fine  grass,  and  is  carefully 
measuring  them,  to  see  which  is  the  taller.  Perhaps  that 
is  the  reason  that  her  response  comes  slowly. 

"  I  am  glad,"  she  says,  "  quite  glad  !  Formerly,  when 
I  was  strong  and  well,  I  did  not  mind  who  cared  for  me  or 
who  did  not ;  I  cared  for  myself  a  great  deal — immensely 
— and  that  was  enough  ;  but  now  that  I  am  so  weak  and 
sickly,  and  waughing,  as  they  say  in  Staffordshire — is  not 
it  a  good  word  ?  does  not  it  give  a  limp,  peevish,  unstrung 
idea  ? — why,  now  I  like  some  good,  patient  person  to  be 
near  me,  and  look  sorry  when  I  am  out  of  breath  and  in 
tiresome  pain." 

He  does  not  answer,  but  I  do  not  think  she  takes  his 
silence  ill. 

"  Care  for  me,"  she  says,  simply,  stretching  out  her 
hand,  with  a  sort  of  naivete,  to  him — "  care  for  me  a  little 
— care  for  me  a  good  deal,  but  do  not  care  for  me  too 
much  ;  it  is  silly  to  care  too  much  for  any  thing — one 
misses  it  so  if  it  goes  ! " 

He  takes  the  hand  she  so  frankly  gives,  but  he  is  afraid 
violently  to  press  or  kiss  it,  lest,  with  a  sudden  change  of 
mood,  she  may  snatch  it  angrily  away. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  day  we  parted  ?  "  he  asks,  in  a 
hesitating  voice. 

"  Yes,"  she  says,  with  a  rather  embarrassed  laugh,  "  to 
be  sure  I  remember.  We  both  went  into  heroics,  and  you, 
after  abusing  me  in  good,  nervous  English,  fell  on  your 
knees  before  me,  and,  in  so  doing,  gave  Pug's  nose  such 
a  kick  that  it  has  never  been  the  same  pattern  since." 

"  It  is  nearly  six  months  since  then,"  he  says,  in  a 
low  voice ;  "  five,  at  least.  If  I  had  taken  you  at  your 
word— " 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SATS.  395 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  did  not ! "  she  interrupts,  hastily. 

His  face  falls. 

"  So  glad  are  you  ?     Why  ?  " 

"  Do  not  you  know  that  I  like  to  take  all  and  give 
nothing  ?  "  she  says,  with  a  sort  of  smile.  "  That  was 
always  my  way — always — let  me  have  it  a  little  longer.  I 
know  that  I  cause  you  pain  every  time  that  I  am  with 
you,  but  somehow  I  do  not  mind — I  have  no  remorse ;  you 
are  strong,  and  pain  does  not  kill ;  sometimes  it  braces. 
See,  I  have  suffered  a  good  deal,  and  I  am  not  dead." 

He  clasps  the  slight,  cool  hand  he  holds  tighter. 

"  Thank  God,  no ! " 

"  Have  you  ever  known  what  it  is  to  be  very  unhappy  ?  " 
she  says,  looking  with  a  sort  of  pensive  curiosity  into  his 
face.  "  If  I  asked  you,  you  would  say  '  Yes,'  you  would 
swear  it ;  but  somehow  I  doubt  it.  How  clear  and  blue 
your  eyes  are  !  They  look  as  if  they  had  always  slept  all 
night  and  smiled  all  day.  You  are  not  fat,  certainty — far 
from  it — I  hate  a  fat  man  ;  but  how  well  and  strongly  your 
bones  are  covered !  " 

He  does  not  asseverate ;  he  makes  no  apology  for  his 
healthy  manhood ;  but  I  think,  when  he  next  looks  in  her 
face,  she  knows  that  one  may  wear  a  sore  heart  and  yet 
eat  well,  and  have  broad  shoulders  and  a  stalwart  presence. 
There  is  no  sound  but  the  wind  speaking  pensively  to  the 
pines — the  wind  that  makes  all  the  meadows  one  cool 
shiver. 

"  Why  are  you  so  faithful  ?  "  she  says,  presently,  with 
a  sort  of  impatience  in  her  voice.  "  There  is  no  sense  in 
it ;  there  is  something  stupid  in  such  fidelity ;  it  is  like  a 
dog ;  it  is  not  like  a  man,  at  least  not  like  the  men  I  have 
known." 

A  hot  flush  rises  to  the  young  man's  face. 

"  It  is  stupid,"  he  says,  humbly.    "  I  have  often  thought 


396  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  Why  cannot  you  take  a  fancy  to  some  one  else  ? " 
she  continues,  sharply ;  "  to  one  of  my  sisters,  for  instance ; 
not  Sylvia — no,  I  do  not  think  I  can  conscientiously  recom- 
mend her — but  Jemima;  she  would  worship  the  ground 
you  trod  on,  and  she  is  not  so  very  old,  either.  I  have 
heard  some  people  say  that  an  Englishwoman  is  at  her 
prime,  mind  and  body,  at  twenty-eight ;  and  she  is  only 
twenty-nine." 

Scrope  does  not  seem  to  jump  at  the  tempting  offer 
thus  made  him ;  he  looks  down  on  the  flowery  grass  at  his 
feet. 

"  She  is  not  much  to  look  at,  certainly,"  pursues  Le- 
nore,  coolly,  "  but  neither  am  I,  for  that  matter,  just  now ; 
but,  of  course,  when  I  grow  strong  again,  I  shall  get  my 
looks  back,  shall  I  not  ?  " 

He  is  busy,  apparently,  in  trying  to  make  out  the  Ro- 
mansch  inscription  on  the  small  broken  pillar  beside  him ; 
at  least,  he  does  not  reply. 

"Why  do  not  you  answer  me?"  she  cries,  angrily. 
"  You  used  to  be  glib  enough  with  your  compliments  and 
fine  speeches  ;  if  you  cannot  say  4  Yes,'  at  least  have  the 
honesty  to  say  '  No.'  " 

"  My  dear,"  he  says,  with  a  sort  of  tremor  in  his  voice, 
"  what  should  I  say  either  '  Yes '  or  *  No  '  to  ?  In  my  eyes, 
you  have  never  lost  your  looks ;  how  can  you  get  back 
what  you  have  not  lost  ?  " 

She  looks  at  him  with  a  scared  discontent  in  her  pale 
face. 

"  You  have  got  out  of  it  very  lamely,"  she  says,  with  a 
brusque  laugh.  "  I  never  heard  any  thing  clumsier  in  my 
life.  There — never  mind.  I  suppose  you  could  not  help 
it." 

Her  eyes  stray  thoughtfully  away  to  the  hills  ;  a  lumin- 
ous mist,  a  dimness,  yet  a  glory — seems  spread  over  the 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SATS.  897 

high  mountain  amphitheatre  that  looks  down  on  Pontre- 
sina  ;  great,  glorious  battlements,  lifting  high  heads  against 
the  higher  heaven — citadels  that  a  God  must  be  dwelling 
in :  that  dim  effulgence  is  the  skirt  of  his  trailed  robes. 
Below,  the  meadows  flash  in  yellow,  and  the  river  twists 
in  silver.  O  heavenly  Zion !  O  fair  City  beyond  the  clouds  ! 
can  thy  jasper  walls  and  pearly  gates  be  yet  fairer  ? 

"  And  you  find  that  it  is  quite  as  impossible  as  you  did 
six  months  ago  ?  "  Scrope  asks,  with  a  tremble  in  his.  low 
voice,  after  they  have  sat  silent  some  time. 

"  Quite,"  she  answers,  briefly. 

"  And  it  is  always  he  that  is  in  the  way  ?  "  he  says, 
with  an  accent  of  bitterness. 

"  Yes,"  she  answers,  softly ;  "  always  he — always  he." 
(Then,  with  a  dreamy  smile),  "  You  see  that  there  are  other 
people  who  can  be  stupidly,  doggishty  faithful,  as  well  as 
you ;  you,  at  least,  cannot  blame  me." 

"  If  he  did  but  know  it !  "  the  young  man  cries,  smiting 
his  hands  together,  and  looking  passionately  upward  to  the 
faint  skies  above  him ;  "  if  some  one  would  but  tell  him — 
if  he  did  but  see  you  now — he  could  not  keep  his  senseless 
resentment  any  longer.  It  is  against  my  own  interest  to 
say  so,  but  he  could  not — he  could  not !  " 

"  He  has  no  resentment  against  me  now,"  she  answers, 
quickly,  "  none  ;  he  is  no  longer  angry  with  me." 

"  How  do  you  know  ? "  with  a  hasty  suspicion  in  his 
voice  ;  "  has  he  written  to  you  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  How,  then  ?  " 

"  I  have  seen  him,"  she  says,  briefly, 

For  a  moment,  astonished  disappoinment  keeps  him  si- 
lent ;  then  the  two  words,  "  When,  where  ?  "  come,  low  but 
hurriedly,  from  his  Tnouth. 

"  We  had  a  long  talk,"  she  says,  with  the  same  un- 


398  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

mirthful,  tender  smile,  "  quite  a  long  talk — 011  a  bridge — 
in  the  moonlight,  at  Bergun  ;  the  accessories  sound  roman- 
tic, do  not  they  ?  Moonlight  always  makes  one  feel  sen- 
timental ;  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  we  were  not  a  little  so." 

A  pause.  Through  the  larches  in  the  wood  above  them, 
a  long — long  sigh  passes  ;  then  falls — dies — then  revives 
again  ;  a  sound  as  of  infinite  yearning. 

"When  he  is  coming  here,  give  me  warning  before- 
hand," says  Scrope,  in  a  voice  that  is  next  door  to  a  whis- 
per. "  I  suppose  he  will  be  coming  here  soon  ?  " 

"  Perhaps,"  she  answers,  with  a  little  laugh  that  is 
almost  malicious.  "  Who  knows  ?  Perhaps  he  may  take 
it  in  his  wedding-tour." 

"  His  wedding-tour  !  !  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answers,  looking  away  from  his  bewildered 
face  again,  on  the  perfect  content,  the  evening  placidness, 
of  the  landscape ;  "  it  is  contrariant,  is  it  not  ?  but  he  is 
going  to  be  married." 

"  Who  told  you  so '(  "  (very  rapidly). 

"  He  told  me  so  himself." 

"  And  you  ?  how  did  you  take  it  ?  what  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  said,  *  Oh,  are  you  ?  '  I  believe  I  laughed — I  am 
not  sure." 

"And  then?" 

"  And  then — no,  not  quite  then  "  (drawing  in  her  breath 
slowly) — "  a  little  afterward — he  went." 

"  And  you  ?  " 

"  And  I — oh,  I  lay  down  on  the  grass — nice,  crisp,  dry 
grass,  by  the  river,  with  my  head  in  a  clump  of  trefoil — 
what  a  noisy  river  it  was  !  "  (speaking  with  a  sort  of  pen- 
sive complaint) — "  sometimes  I  hear  it  now,  at  night,  run- 
ning through  my  head." 

"  And  you  stayed  there  all  night — you — in  the  damp  ?  " 
(with  a  tone  of  reproachful  solicitude). 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  399 

"  No,  not  all  night ;  about  half  the  night,  I  think — I 
forget  about  the  time ;  talking  is  very  tiring  work,  and  I 
was  tired." 

"Yes?" 

"  And  then  they  grew  anxious — Jemima  and  Sylvia — 
and  came  to  look  for  me." 

"Well?" 

"  And  then  they  scolded  me,  and  asked  me  what  had 
happened  to  me,  and  I  said  I  had  seen  a  ghost ;  so  I  had." 

The  wind  has  no  more  to  say ;  he  has  dropped  ;  there 
is  no  noise  but  the  swirl  of  the  far  water. 

"  Sylvia  was  quite  interested,"  pursues  Lenore,  rousing 
herself,  and  even  looking  rather  amused  ;  "  she  wanted  to 
know  what  sort  of  a  ghost  it  was — whether  a  man's,  or  a 
woman's,  or  a  child's,  or  a  dog's — she  said  she  had  heard 
of  dogs'  ghosts  being  sometimes  seen — and  also  whether  it 
carried  its  head  under  its  arm.  I  said,  '  No,  it  did  not ; ' 
and — and — and  that  is  all,  I  think." 

On  the  glacier-mountain  there  is  a  white  glory  that  can- 
not be  moonlight,  for  moon  is  there  none ;  it  must  have 
stolen  some  of  the  sunset,  and  kept  it  in  its  bosom ;  the 
shadows  steal  over  the  lower  snow,  but  the  peaks  keep 
that  strange  shining,  such  as  Moses'  face  had  when  he 
came  down  from  his  high  talk  with  God. 

"  Charlie,"  says  Lenore,  suddenly,  with  an  abrupt 
change  of  subject,  "  does  not  it  occur  to  you  that  at  Pon- 
tresina  the  dead  are  much  better  lodged  than  the  living  ? 
Would  not  you  rather  be  here  than  at  the  Croix 
Blanche?" 

"  At  the  present  moment,  certainly,"  he  answers,  with 
a  smile.  "  I  prefer  you  and  the  smell  of  flowers  to  the 
German  squaws  and  the  smell  of  negus." 

"  Look,"  she  says,  rising  from  her  grassy  seat,  "  I  am 
going  to  show  you  something.  If  I  were  old,  or  had  any 


400  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

complaint  that  was  likely  to  kill  me,  I  will  show  you  the 
exact  spot  where  I  should  like  to  lie — how  can  you  see  ? 
you  have  turned  away  your  face.  Pshaw  !  how  absurdly 
sensitive  you  are  !  you  are  as  bad  as  Jemima.  If  either  of 
you  were  to  point  out  to  me  the  place  that  you  wished  to 
be  your  grave,  I  should  listen  with  the  most  composed  at- 
tention, and  try  to  bear  it  in  mind  against  the  time  when  I 
should  have  the  misfortune  to  lose  you." 

"  I  quite  believe  it,"  he  answers,  bitterly ;  "  I  have  no 
doubt  you  would." 

"  See,"  she  says,  not  heeding  the  bitterness,  hardly  hear- 
ing it,  but  pointing,  with  a  smile,  to  a  spot  of  ground, 
richer  even  than  its  neighbors  in  manifold-colored  flowers 
and  fine  green  grass,  "  did  you  ever  see  any  thing  so  luxu- 
rious ? — this  wall's  shadow  to  shelter  me  from  the  sun  at 
noonday,  and  all  these  pink  plantains  to  ripple  above  one's 
head.  They  say  one  does  not  hear  when  one  is  dead — 
well,  as  to  that,  I  have  my  own  opinion ;  but  if  one  could 
hear,  it  would  be  pleasant  to  listen  to  the  wind  softly  buf- 
feting their  tall  heads  in  the  dim  summer  nights,  would  not 
it?" 

No  answer. 

"  I  would  have  no  gilt  tears,  however,  on  my  cross," 
she  adds,  a  few  minutes -later. 

He  stoops  and  plucks  a  handful  of  the  pink  plantains, 
angrily,  and  then  throws  it  away  again. 

"  What  are  you  doing  ?  "  she  asks,  turning  with  a  ges- 
ture of  surprise  and  remonstrance  to  him.  "  Why  do  you 
look  so  cross  ?  Why  are  you  frowning  and  clinching  your 
hands  ?  You  foolish  fellow,  do  you  think,  if  I  meant  to 
die  really,  that  I  should  talk  about  it  so  lightly — that  I 
should  pick  and  choose  my  grave  ?  Good  God  !  no  !  " 
(with  a  strong  shudder) — "  I  should  keep  far  enough  from 
the  subject ! " 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  401 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"  On  pain  of  death,  let  no  man  name  death  to  me  ;  it  is  a  word  in- 
finitely terrible." 

WHAT     THE     AUTHOR     SATS. 

"  YES,  they  are  certainly  coining  round,"  says  Sylvia, 
with  a  tone  of  self-gratulation.  "  I  met  Mrs.  Scrope  just 
now  on  the  stairs,  and  she  said :  '  You  have  been  to  the 
Rosegg  ?  I  hear  there  is  quite  a  practicable  road  there  ? 
When  once  one  has  the  men  on  one's  side,  one  is  all  right ; 
and,  somehow,  we  always  manage  to  enlist  the  sympathies 
of  the  fathers  and  husbands  and  brothers.' ?; 

"  I  do  -not  agree  with  you,"  says  Jemima,  taking  her 
hat  off  and  laying  it  on  the  table.  "  I  think  it  is  just  the 
other  way — the  women  to  be  propitiated,  and  the  men  fol- 
low naturally.  Take  care  of  the  women,  and  the  men  will 
take  care  of  themselves." 

"  They  certainly  dress  very  well,"  continues  Sylvia, 
complacently  ;  "  nothing  voyant  •  all  those  pretty  mouse- 
colors,  and  sad  colors,  and  smoke-colors,  that  I  am  so  de- 
voted to.  Very  good  taste  ;  and,  say  what  you  will,  that 
alone  is  enough  to  prepossess  one  in  people's  favor." 

"  I  have  just  been  falling  into  the  arms  of  that  dreadful 
little  widow,"  Mrs.  Scrope  says,  reentering  her  own  apart- 
ment at  the  same  time  as  Sylvia  has  made  her  reappearance 
in  hers.  "  Ambling  up  the  stairs  and  coquetting  with  the 
banisters,  as  usual.  She  is  always  on  the  stairs." 

"  She  reminds  me  of  the  women  in  Isaiah,  don't  you 
know?"  says  Mrs.  Lascelles,  laughing;  "'walking  and 
mincing  as  they  go.'  I  wonder  had  they  high-heeled  shoes 


402  "QOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

and  a  pannier  ?  If  it  were  the  fashion  to  sew  pillows  to 
armholes  nowadays,  what  gigantic  bolsters  she  would 
have ! " 

"  My  dear,  atrociously  as  that  girl  behaved,  we  never 
can  be  too  thankful  to  her  for  having  delivered  us  from  the 
Prodgers  connection.  Prodgers  ! — such  a  name !  " 

"  Do  not  halloo  before  you  are  out  of  the  wood,"  says 
Mr.  Lascelles,  looking  up  from  his  novel  for  a  moment,  and 
instantly  immersing  himself  in  it  again. 

"  I  believe  what  first  set  her  against  him  was  the  awful 
description  I  gave  her  of  our  honeymoon,"  says  his  wife, 
laughing  again.  "  I  told  her  about  your  being  sea-sick  all 
the  way  to  St.-Malo.  I  remember  she  looked  awe-struck 
at  the  time." 

"  It  will  be  all  on  again  before  you  can  look  round," 
says  Mr.  Lascelles,  again  emerging  from  his  romance. 

Both  women  shake  tHeir  heads. 

"  Poor  soul !  it  would  hardly  be  worth  while  her  being 
1  on  '  as  you  say,  with  any  one." 

"  You  mean  that  she  is  not  long  for  this  world  ?  "  re- 
plies he,  dropping  his  book  entirely  this  time.  Mr.  Las- 
celles's  voice  is  never  as  low  as  Cordelia's,  and  the  door  is 
ajar. 

"  Hush  ! "  cry  both  the  women  together.  "  Some  one 
is  passing;  it  may  be  one  of  them." 

"  I  wish  I  could  induce  you  sometimes  not  to  speak  at 
the  very  tip-top  of  your  voice,"  says  his  wife.  "  If  you  re- 
member, when  you  proposed  to  me,  at  the  Inniskillings' 
ball,  you  expressed  your  wishes  so  loudly  that  you  drowned 
the  band." 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  403 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

WHAT     JEMIMA     SAYS. 

THE  hotel  is  fuller  than  it  was.  This  last  week  has 
made  a  difference.  Several  more  little  whitewash  rooms 
are  occupied.  A  member  of  the  Alpine  Club,  with  a 
harem  of  three  gaunt  women,  battered  and  unsexed  by 
much  scaling  of  high  mountains ;  two  or  three  new  couples. 
The  last,  an  elderly  clergyman  and  his  wife,  occupy  the 
room  next  mine.  Only  this  morning  I  was  remarking  on 
the  thinness  of  the  partition-walls :  I  can  hear  him  alter- 
nately splashing  and  groaning  in  his  tub. 

"  They  have  not  been  married  long,"  Lenore  says. 
"  They  say  the  Lord's  Prayer  together  very  loudly  every 
night." 

And  Scrope  asks,  laughing,  whether  that  is  a  proof  of 
being  newly  wedded. 

This  was  after  breakfast.  Since  then  we  have  been  to 
the  Rosegg  glacier.  Lenore  has  not  been  with  us  :  gradu- 
ally she  is  slipping  out  of  our  excursions.  "  For  the  pres- 
ent," she  says;  "just  for  the  present,  I  am  better  at 
home."  Now  we  are  back  again,  Sylvia  and  I,  in  our  own 
little  sitting-room — a  cheerful  little  place,  whence  one  can 
look  down  on  the  white  houses  of  the  clean,  narrow  street, 
see  the  outgoers  and  incomers  to  the  hotel,  and  catch 
bright  glimpses  of  the  mountains. 

The  door  opens  and  Lenore  enters,  and  at  the  same  mo- 
ment Sylvia  passes  out.  "  Is  she  gone  ? "  says  Lenore, 
advancing  toward  me  ;  "  really  gone,  do  you  think  ?  I  do 
not  know  why  I  ask ;  I  have  nothing  particular  to  say." 
Her  face  is  disturbed,  and  her  eyes  wander  uneasily  round. 


404  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

"  I — I — I  have  been  eavesdropping"  she  says,  beginning  to 
laugh.  "  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  And  they  say 
listeners  never  hear  any  good  of  themselves.  That,  how- 
ever, is  not  a  case  in  point,  for  I  heard  nothing  about  ray- 
self,  of  course — nothing" 

"  Eavesdropping  ! "  I  repeat,  surprised.  "  That  is  not 
very  like  you.  What  do  you  mean  ?  What  are  you  talk- 
ing about  ?  " 

"I  was  passing  by  the  Scropes'  door  just  now,"  she 
says,  with  a  sort  of  hurry  and  agitation  in  her  manner — "  it 
was  ajar,  I  wish  people  would  keep  their  doors  shut "  (with 
a  tone  of  irritability) — "  and  they  were  talking  ;  the  man — 
the  husband — you  know  what  a  sweet,  low  voice  he  has — 
was  saying,  in  a  tone  as  loud  as  all  the  bulls  you  ever  heard 
bellowing :  '  She  is  not  long  for  this  world.'  Whom  do 
you  think  they  were  talking,  about  ?  " 

"  My  dear  child,"  I  say,  impatiently,  "  what  extraordi- 
nary things  excite  your  curiosity !  Am  I  a  diviner  of  dark 
sayings  ?  Probably  some  friend  of  their  own  that  we 
never  heard  of." 

"And  then  the  woman  said, '  Hush,  hush ! '  "  pursues  she, 
with  her  eyes  still  watching  my  face.  "  Why  did  they  say 
4  Hush  ? '  if  it  were  some  friend  of  theirs  ;  why  should  they 
mind  being  overheard  ?  They  were  saying  no  ill  of  her." 

"  Pshaw  !  "  say  I,  pettishly  ;  "  how  do  I  know  ?  " 

"  He  said  she,  certainly — not  he"  she  continues,  as  if 
unable  to  leave  the  subject.  "Not  long  for  this  world  f  " 
(uttering  the  words  very  slowly).  "Poor  soul,  whoever 
she  is,  I  am  sorry  for  her,  are  not  you,  Jemima  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course — very  sorry,"  I  answer,  indis- 
tinctly, turning  to  the  window. 

"  And  yet  it  is  absurd  to  be  sorry  for  a  person  one  has 
never  seen — never  heard  of — is  not  it  ? "  persists  Lenore, 
again  breaking  out  into  a  laugh.  "  Perhaps  we  are  throw- 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  405 

ing  away  our  compassion — perhaps  it  was  a  dog  or  a  cat — 
who  knows  ?  " 

"  Very  likely,  very  likely !  " 

"  But  why  did  they  say  '  Hush  ? '  "  she  says,  brooding 
over  the  word,  and  addressing  the  question  rather  to  her- 
self than  to  me. 

I  do  not  answer. 

"  Jemima,"  she  says,  following  me  to  the  window,  "  look 
round — I  hate  not  being  listened  to  when  I  am  talking — I 
am  going  to  make  you  laugh — you  often  laugh  at  my 
ideas ;  well,  they  are  sufficiently  ridiculous  now  and  then  ; 
do  you  know  I  took  it  into  my  head — one  is  so  egotistical 
— that  perhaps  they  were  talking  of — of — me." 

I  lean  out  of  the  window,  and  try  to  persuade  myself 
that  my  voice,  as  I  say  " Nonsense"  sounds  lazily  indif- 
ferent. 

"  You  are  not  laughing,"  she  cries,  in  a  tone  of  alarm. 
"  I  thought  }^ou  would  have  laughed.  Why  do  not  you 
laugh  ?  Is  it  possible  that  you  see  nothing  ridiculous  in  it 
— that  you  think  it — it — is — true  !  " 

"  I  think  nothing  of  the  kind,"  I  answer,  irritably :  "  do 
not  be  so  absurdly  fanciful." 

"  If  they  did  mean  me,"  she  says,  with  the  same  rest- 
less, strained  laugh,  "  they  are  alone  in  their  opinion,  are 
not  they  ? — quite  alone.  It  does  me  no  harm,  and  it  amuses 
them,  I  suppose — ha,  ha ! " 

"  What  disease  do  they  mean  to  kill  me  by,  I  wonder  ?  " 
she  says,  after  a  pause,  spent  by  her  in  rapidly  traversing 
and  retraversing  the  little  room.  "  Consumption,  of  course  " 
(shuddering).  .  .  .  "  They  should  have  'seen  you  last 
winter,"  she  resumes,  by-and-by,  standing  beside  me,  and 
uneasily  trying  to  see  my  face,  "  when  you  had  that  attack 
of  influenza.  How  you  coughed !  Worse,  far  worse,  than 
I  do,  and  your  head  ached  torturingly — mine  seldom  aches 


406  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

— and  you  were  so  weak  you  could  scarcely  lift  a  finger, 
and  yet  it  was  only  influenza  !  " 

"  Only  influenza,"  I  echo,  mechanically ;  "  influenza  is 
nothing." 

"  Tell  me,"  she  says,  a  little  reassured,  and  looking  into 
my  face  as  if  she  would  wring  from  me  the  answer  she 
longs  for,  "you  must  have  an  opinion  one  way  or  the  other; 
do  you  tliinlc  they  meant  me  ?  " 

"  My  dear,"  I  say,  driven  into  a  corner,  "  did  I  hear 
what  they  said  ?  I  only  know  what  you  tell  me  ;  it — it  is 
very  conceited  of  you  to  imagine  that  they  must  be  always 
talking  of  you." 

"People  are  so  fond  of  killing  their  friends,  are  not 
they  ?  "  she  says,  with  the  same  wistful,  searching  look  in 
her  great  and  lovely  eyes :  "  so  are  doctors,  and  very  often 
the  killed  outlive  the  killers  after  all." 

"  Very  often." 

"  Next  time  that  I  pass  their  door  I  shall  run  past 
with  my  fingers  in  my  ears.  Feel  how  my  heart  is  beat- 
ing!"  ' 

"  You  are  growing  as  bad  as  Sylvia,"  I  say,  trying  to 
speak  gayly ;  "  she  is  always  requesting  me  to  feel  how 
her  heart  is  beating ;  if  you  both  set  up  nerves,  I  shall 
decamp." 

"You  think  I  may  make  my  mind  quite  easy,"  she 
says,  in  a  lighter  tone,  taking  my  hand  in  her  two  hot  slen- 
der ones. 

"Of  course — of  course." 

"  That  they  were  talking  of  some  one  else — or  that,  if 
it  were  me,  they  were  utterly  and  unaccountably  mis- 
taken ?  " 

"  To  be  sure  !— to  be  sure ! " 

"  But  florid  people  often  seem  to  think  that  those  who 
are  not  so  red  and  bulky  as  themselves  must  be  in  articulo 
mortis" 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  407 

«  So  they  do." 

"Jemima!"  (still  strongly  clasping  my  hand  in  both 
hers),  "  if  you  believe  it  so  firmly,  you  will  not  mind  swear- 
ing it." 

"  What  is  the  use  of  oaths  and  asseverations  ?  "  I  ask, 
uncomfortably.  "  Will  not  a  simple  assertion  do  as  well  ?  " 

"  You  won't  swear ! "  she  cries,  in  a  tone  of  profound 
alarm.  "  Why  not  ?  Jemima,  I  do  not  like  your  face ! 
Your  eyes  will  not  meet  mine — your  lips  are  quivering — 
you  are  half  crying.  I  know  that  I  am  very  sick — that  I 
have  not  much  peace,  day  or  night — but  you  do  not  think 
that  it  means  any  thing  bad  ? — that  I  am — O  my  God !  I 
cannot  say  the  word  !  " 

Her  sentence  breaks  off,  smothered  in  a  shuddering 
sob. 

"  I  think  nothing  of  the  kind,"  I  say,  hastily,  thorough- 
ly frightened  at  her  agitation.  "Why  will  you  gallop 
away  with  an  idea  ? — O  Charlie !  do  come  here ;  she  is  so 
impracticable — so  unreasonable — she  is  talking  such  non- 
sense." 

The  door  has  opened,  and  Mr.  Scrope  is  looking  doubt- 
fully in.  At  my  words  he  enters  hastily. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  runs  to  him  of  her  own 
accord,  and  throws  herself  into  his  arms.  "O  Charlie!" 
she  cries,  wildly,  "  you  are  the  only  person  in  the  world 
that  is  kind  to  me.  They  have  been  so  cruel  to  me — so 
cruel.  They  have  been  saying  such  things  of  me — you 
would  not  believe  it.  That  man — that  Mr.  Lascelles — says 
I  am  not  long  for  this  world,  and  Jemima  quite  agrees 
with  him." 

"  Jemima  is  a  fool ! "  says  Mr.  Scrope,  unjustly,  looking 
with  a  momentary  expression  of  raging  hatred  at  me  over 
her  prone  head. 

"  Not  long  for  this  world!  "  she  repeats,  with  a  sort  of 


408  "  GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!  " 

moan,   lifting1    her    face,    and   staring    pitifully   into   his. 
"  Those  were  his  very  words :  I  hare  not  altered  one." 

"  Lout !  idiot !  "  cries  Scrope,  angrily ;  "  he  had  not  an 
idea  what  he  was  saying ! — he  never  has.  My  darling  " 
(closely  straining  her  to  his  heart,  as  if  neither  God,  nor 
his  fleet  angel,  Death,  should  avail  to  tear  her  thence), 
"  please  God,  you  are  longer  for  this  world  than  he  is — 
than  I — or  Jemima— or  any  of  us." 

"  Do  you  mean  it,  really  f  "  she  says,  with  an  awful 
anxiety  in  her  tone.  "  Are  you  serious  ?  O  God  !  how  I 
wish  I  could  think  so  ! " 

"  Are  you  so  anxious  to  outlive  us  all  ?  "  he  asks,  with 
a  passionate  melancholy.  "  Well,  I  dare  say — it  is  natural, 
I  suppose.  Why  should  not  you  ?  Very  likely  you  will 
have  your  wish." 

"  I  want  to  live  to  be  quite  old,"  she  says,  hurriedly,  not 
heeding  his  upbraiding  eyes  or  tone.  "  I  want  to  live  a 
great  many  years :  people  are  often  happier  when  they  are 
middle-aged  than  in  youth ;  but  it  is  pleasant  to  be  young, 
too.  It  is  not  all  pleasure,  but  there  is  a  great  deal.  I  do 
not  complain — I  do  not  complain.  "  (She  is  trembling  vio- 
lently.) "  Hold  me  ! "  she  says,  hysterically.  "  Do  not  let 
me  go.  You  are  the  only  person  in  the  world  to  whom .  it 
matters  much  whether  I  die  or  live.  Promise  me  that  I 
shall  not — oh,  that  dreadful  word ! — promise  me  !  " 

"I  promise,  darling,"  he  sa}7s,  "I. promise." 

"  You  speak  uncertainly ! "  she  says,-  wrenching  herself 
out  of  his  arms,  and  staring  at  him  in  a  distrustful  agony  ; 
"  you  are  like  Jemima — your  face  is  all  quivering.  I  be- 
lieve you  are  telling  me  falsehoods  on  such  a  subject ! 
Great  God !  can  there  be  any  thing  wickeder  than  to  de- 
ceive one — to  tell  one  lies — in  such  a  case  ?  " 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  I  am  not  telling  lies  I  Before  God,  I  am 
not !  I  confidently  trust — I  altogether  hope,  that  I  shall 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  409 

yet  see  you  strong  and  well  as  ever  again.  If  I  thought 
the  contrary,  do  you  think  I  could  bear  my  own  life  for  one 
minute  ?  " 

"  What  does  it  matter  what  you  think — what  you 
hope  ?  "  she  cries,  roughly,  with  one  of  her  old,  petulant 
movements ;  "  will  your  trusting  and  hoping  keep  it  off  ? 
Will  telling  lies  about  it  make  it  any  better  ? "  (with  an 
angry  flash  of  her  lovely,  miserable  eyes  at  us  both). 
"  Whatever  you  say — whatever  you  do — it  is  coming ! — 
it  is  coming ! " 

She  flings  herself  down  on  the  little  sofa,  shuddering 
from  head  to  foot,  and  buries  her  face  in  the  pillow,  while 
her  whole  frame  is  shaken  by  the  violence  of  her  sobs. 

"  My  dearest  child  !  "  I  say,  half  out  of  my  sober  wits 
with  fright  and  pain,  advancing  to  her,  and  gently  touch- 
ing her  on  the  shoulder ;  "  for  Heaven's  sake,  do  not  be  so 
excited!  You  are  not  very  ill  now,  really,  you  know; 
you  can  go  about  a  little,  and  walk,  and  talk,  like  the  rest 
of  us ;  but,  if  you  behave  in  this  way — •" 

"  Where  have  my  eyes  been  ?  "  she  interrupts,  sitting 
up  again,  and  speaking  connectedly,  but  not  calmly,  while 
the  great  tears  pour  down  her  cheeks.  "  How  is  it  that  I 
have  not  seen  all  your  looks  and  signs  ?  If  they  had  not 
thought  me  very  bad,  would  the  Scropes  have  spoken  to 
me  the  other  night  ?  Not  they  !  So  I  excited  their  com- 
passion, did  I  ?.  I  had  no  idea  that  I  was  an  object  of 
pity!  I  never  used  to  be.  Oh,  I  am,  indeed!  They 
were  right!  ,  lam,  indeed!"  (breaking  into  a  fresh  tem- 
pest of  great  sobs,  and  again  hiding  her  face  in  the  cush- 
ion). 

"  You  are  mistaken  ! "  cries  Scrope,  beside  himself  at 

the  sight  of  her  agony,  and  throwing  himself  on  his  knees. 

"  Look  up,  Lenore  !     Look  up,  beloved !     Look  in  my  face, 

and  see  whether  I  am  telling  truth.     They  talked  to  you 

18 


410  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

the  other  night  because  they  knew  that,  if  they  were  not 
civil  to  you,  I  should  never  speak  to  them  again — because 
they  dared  not  be  impertinent  to  you.  Why  should  they 
pity  you,  except  for  being  younger  and  prettier  than  them- 
selves ?  " 

"  You  may  save  your  breath,"  she  answers,  looking  at 
him  fixedly,  with  a  sort  of  resentment ;  "  there  is  no  un- 
true thing  that  you  would  not  say  to  me  now,  to  keep  me 
quiet.  ...  It  is  very  unjust,"  she  cries  out  loud,  clasping 
her  lifted  hands  in  a  frenzy ;  "  it  is  hard — there  is  no  sense 
in  it — that  I,  that  am  the  youngest,  should  go  first ! — I, 
that  was  so  pretty,  and  enjoyed  my  life  so  much  !  Some 
people  only  half  live.  Until  we  went  to  Dinan  I  lived 
every  moment  of  my  life.  Since  then  I  have  been  misera- 
ble, certainly — very  miserable,  now  and  then — but  it  was 
not  half  so  bad  as  this  !  Oh,  how  gladly  I  would  have  it 
all  over  again !  At  least,  I  was  alive  then,"  she  says, 
trembling  violently.  "Nobody  pitied  me  then!  After 
all,  what  does  it  matter  what  happens  to  one,  so  long  as 
one  is  alive  ? — that  is  the  great  thing !  Sometimes  I  have 
•  said  I  wished  I  was  dead ;  but  God  knows  I  did  not  mean 
it.  One  says  so  many  things  that  one  does  not  mean.  He 
cannot  be  so  cruel  as  to  take  me  at  my  word  !  Oh,  He 
cannot !  He  cannot ! " 

Her  voice  dies  in  a  wail — a  wail  of  unspeakable  fear. 

"  Good  Heavens  !  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  says  Sylvia, 
opening  the  door  and  entering,  her  commonplace  voice 
striking  on  us  with  a  painful  incongruity.  "  Why  are  you 
all  pulling  such  long  faces  ?  " 

We  none  of  us  answer  her. 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  411 


CHAPTER    IX. 

"  Though  one  were  fair  as  roses, 
His  beauty  clouds  and  closes  ; 
And  well  though  love  reposes, 
In  the  end  it  is  not  well." 

WHAT     JEMIMA     BAYS. 

LENORE  lias  been  very  ill.  Her  very  fear  has  acceler- 
ated what  she  feared.  During  the  night  following  the 
conversation  detailed  in  the  last  chapter,  in  a  violent  fit  of 
coughing,  made  more  violent  than  usual  by  overpowering 
emotion,  by  uncontrolled  weeping,  she  has  broken  a  blood- 
vessel. It  is  in  the  dead  of  night ;  every  soul  in  the  hotel 
is  asleep.  Until  they  have  tried  it,  no  one  can  realize  the 
feeling  of  absolute  helpless  desperation  that  assails  one 
under  such  a  catastrophe,  happening  in  a  remote  and  hard- 
ly-accessible corner  of  Switzerland,  utterly  without  doctors, 
and  four  days'  post  from  England.  Since  the  days  of  Le- 
nore's  childhood,  I  have  been  entirely  unused  to  the  sight 
of  sickness.  I  have  not  the  remotest  idea  what  remedies 
to  apply ;  neither  is  Sylvia  any  wiser.  In  my  despair  I 
turn  to  the  one  person  from  whom  I  know  that  I  shall  get 
at  least  passionate  sympathy.  Apparently  he  is  not 
asleep,  for  before  I  knock  at  his  door  he  has  opened  it, 
and  stands  before  me  in  the  dishevelled  dress  in  which  a 
person  usually  appears  who  has  sprung  out  of  sleep  into 
his  clothes,  his  curled  locks  tossed  in  the  untidiness  of 
slumber,  and  the  heavy  lids  still  weighing  on  his  blue 
eyes. 

"I   thought   it   was   your   step,"   he   says,   hurriedly. 
"  Good  Heavens  !  what  is  it  ?    Is  she — is  she — " 


412  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETUEAUT!" 

"  She  is  much  worse  ;  she  has  broken  a  blood-vessel," 
I  answer,  breathlessly.  "  What  are  we  to  do  ?  what  are 
we  to  do  ?  "  (wringing  my  hands).  "  No  doctor  to  send 
for  !  One  is  so  utterly  helpless.  What  is  to  become  of 
us?" 

For  an  instant  he  has  clinched  his  hands,  with  a  move- 
ment of  despair  more  absolute  even  than  mine ;  then,  un- 
der the  urgent  need  for  them,  his  strayed  wits  come  back. 

"  There  must  be  a  doctor  at  St.  Moritz,"  he  says ; 
"  among  two  or  three  hundred  visitors  there  always  are 
one  or  two.  I  will  knock  up  M.  Enderlin,  and  make  him 
saddle  me  a  horse  to  go  there." 

"  But  what  are  we  to  do  meanwhile  ?  "  I  ask,  help- 
lessly. "  You  cannot  be  back  for  two  hours,  at  soonest. 
We  know  nothing  !  Perhaps  we  may  be  throwing  away 
her  life,  for  want  of  knowing  the  right  way  to  keep  it." 

"  I  will  send  my  mother,"  he  says. 

He  is  already  half-way  down  the  long,  chill  passage. 
In  twenty  minutes  more  he  is  gone,  and  the  whole  house 
is  astir.  Doors  are  being  opened  ;  people  of  both  sexes, 
evidently  so  slightly  dressed  as  to  avoid  rather  than  court 
notice,  protrude  their  heads,  and  ask  what  is  the  matter. 
Mrs.  Scrope  has  come  hurrying  to  us,  with  the  entire  self- 
forgetfulness  of  a  kind-hearted  person ;  come  hurrying  in  a 
limp  and  corsetless  dishabille,  eminently  becoming  to  a 
young  girl,  but  cruelly  trying  to  the  best-looking  woman 
of  more  advanced  age.  How  many  secrets  of  the  prison- 
house  must  a  fire,  an  alarm  of  burglary,  or  a  sudden  illness, 
have  revealed  before  now  !  She  has  put  something  of  calm 
and  order  into  our  disordered  consternation.  We  do  what 
little  we  can — alas  !  it  is  but  little — and  then  wait — wait 
— try  to  imagine,  as  we  sit  in  absolute  silence  and  weary 
stillness  in  the  little  bare  room,  how  far  up  the  mountain- 
road  to  St.  Moritz  our  messenger  is  ;  fancy  a  hundred  times 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SATS.  413 

that  we  hear  the  hoofs  of  his  back-coming  horse  long  before 
he  can  possibly  have  reached  his  destination.  Sylvia  has 
disappeared.  Certainly  she  was  here  when  first  I  went  to 
call  Charlie,  though  she  entirely  declined  to  accompany  me 
on  that  mission.  Has  she  actually  had  the  heart  to  go  to 
bed  again  ?  I  am  not  long  left  in  doubt.  As  we  sit,  not 
speaking,  in  the  dawn  of  the  summer  morning,  that  seems 
to  have  run  half-way  to  meet  the  so-lately-gone  evening, 
the  door  opens  softly,  and  she  enters.  She  has  been  mak- 
ing a  toilet;  an  embroidered  wrapper  embraces  her  form, 
and  a  saffron  ribbon  is  twisted  in  her  black  hair.  The  rul- 
ing passion  strong  in  death  ! — not  her  own  death,  but  that 
of  another  person. 

"  Can  I  be  of  any  use  ?  "  she  says,  looking  in. — "  O  Mrs. 
Scrope,  how  good  of  you  to  come  to  us  in  our  trouble  !  I 
had  not  an  idea  that  you  were  here." 

I  make  signs  to  her  not  to  speak,  and  also  that  the 
room  is  too  confined  to  admit  of  three  nurses.  She  disap- 
pears. It  is  full  morning  before  the  joyful  sound  that  for 
hours  we  have  been  straining  our  ears  to  catch  greets  them. 
The  doctor  has  arrived.  He  is  a  dirty-looking  little  fellow ; 
some  paltry  apothecary,  probably,  to  whom,  were  one  in 
England,  one  would  hardly  intrust  the  care  of  a  sick  dog ; 
but  now,  with  what  utter  faith,  with  what  intense  and  be- 
lieving anxiety,  do  we  listen  to  his  fiat ! 

61  He  says  it  is  only  a  small  blood-vessel,  after  all,"  I 
say,  trying  ta  speak  cheerfully,  as  I  rejoin  Charlie  outside 
the  door,  and  looking  haggardly  into  his  still  more  haggard 
face,  in  the  early  splendor  of  the  strong  young  daylight. 
"  Perhaps  we  have  been  making  ourselves  too  miserable. 
She  is  to  be  kept  absolutely  quiet ;  only  one  person  at  a  time 
in  the  room,  and  that  one  not  to  speak.  She  is  to  have  all 
sorts  of  nourishing  things.  Good  Heavens ! "  (breaking  off 
in  a  sort  of  despair),  "  where  are  they  to  come  from — here, 


414  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

where  there  is  nothing  but  spiced  beef  as  hard  as  a  shoe, 
and  skeleton  fowls  ?  " 

"  Why  did  you  bring  her  here  ?  "  he  asks,  in  a  tone  of 
angry  misery.  "  Were  you  mad?  It  was  murder  !  " 

"  We  did  it  for  the  best,"  I  answer,  humbly ;  "  the  doc- 
tor recommended  it,  and  she  fancied  it."  .  .  . 

As  ill-luck  will  have  it,  next  day  there  is  a  great  yearly 
f&te  celebrated  in  the  village ;  a  stir  and  festal  noise  all 
the  long  day  in  the  crowded  street  and  through  the  house ; 
doors  banging,  loud  voices  laughing.  We  have  tried  so 
earnestly  to  keep  them  quiet,  but  all  in  vain.  When  one 
is  merry  with  beer,  and  that  one  has  a  holiday  only  twice 
or  thrice  a  year,  one  cannot  always,  every  moment,  bear  in 
mind  the  sufferings  of  an  unknown,  unseen  stranger.  It  is 
drawing  toward  night  again;  still  the  clamor  shows  no 
symptom  of  abating.  Now  and  again  I  hear  Madame  En- 
derlin's  low,  kind  voice,  in  earnest  remonstrance ;  but 
even  she  remonstrates  in  vain.  The  weather  has  grown 
very  hot.  Lenore  lies  on  her  side,  dozing  uneasily,  moan- 
ing now  and  then.  I  sit  beside  her,  bathing  her  hot  hands 
with  eau  de  Colonge  and  water,  and  give  a  fresh  start  of 
exasperation  and  apprehension  at  every  fresh  noise  that 
penetrates  through  the  door,  left  ajar  to  admit  a  little  air 
into  the  close  room,  where  open  windows  are  forbidden,  at 
least  in  the  evening.  Presently,  a  louder  noise  than  any 
of  the  former  ones  reaches  my  tortured  ears — a  great  and 
heavy  stamping  up  the  stairs — up — up — up.  It  reaches 
the  passage  on  which  all  our  doors  open.  I  stretch  my 
neck  to  see  what  it  is,  without  moving,  and,  to  my  horror, 
discover  that  it  is  an  Italian  hurdy-gurdy  man,  with  his 
instrument  on  his  back.  He  is  just  stooping  his  hand  to 
turn  the  handle,  when  I  see  Charlie  rush  wildly  out  of  his 
own  door,  and  with  furious  gestures  stop  him.  The  poor 
man  is  much  surprised.  "  What !  must  not  he  play  for  the 
flora?" 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  415 


A  month  has  passed.  Lenore  is  again  up ;  lies  on  the 
sofa  in  the  sitting-room,  dressed ;  again  talks,  sometimes 
again  laughs. 

"  She  wishes  to  see  you,"  I  say  to  Mr.  Scrope,  as  we 
went  in  the  passage ;  "  she  is  quite  looking  forward  to  it. 
Will  you  go  now  ?  "  My  fingers  are  on  the  door-handle ; 
I  half  turn  it. 

"  Stay  ! "  he  cries,  hastily,  but  in  a  low  voice,  putting 
his  hand  on  mine  to  check  it ;  "I  am  not  ready.  "Wait  a 
moment — tell  me,  how  do  I  look  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  I  say,  half-laughing.  "  Are 
you  taking  a  leaf  out  of  Sylvia's  book  ?  " 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,"  he  answers,  impatiently. 
"Do  I  look  cheerful — in  good  spirits — as  if  I  had  nothing 
on  my  mind  ?  " 

I  scan  his  face  doubtfully ;  I  cannot  answer  in  the  affir- 
mative. 

"  Her  eyes  looks  me  through  and  through,"  he  says,  ex- 
citedly. "  No  matter  how  much  I  lie,  she  is  not  deceived. 
Tell  me,  Mima,  how  can  I  make  my  face  tell  lies  ? — how 
can  I  look  content  ?  " 

"  She  will  ask  you  no  questions,"  I  answer,  sadly ;  "  at 
least,  I  think  not — she  has  asked  me  none." 

"  Shall  I — be — be — very  much,  shocked  ?  "  he  asks,  in 
a  whisper,  "  it  is  better  to  know  what  to  expect — tell  me." 

"  She  is  pulled  down,  of  course,"  I  answer,  sorrowfully ; 
"  very  much  pulled  down "  (then,  after  a  little  pause)  : 
"  my  poor  fellow,  what  is  the  use  of  buoying  ourselves  up 
with  untrue  hopes  ?  It  is  the  beginning  of  the  end  ;  the 
doctor  himself  said  as  much  to  me  the  other  day." 


416  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 


CHAPTER   X. 

"  The  light  upon  her  yellow  hair, 
But  not  within  her  eyes ; 
The  light  still  there  upon  her  hair, 
The  death  upon  her  eyes." 

WHAT     THE      AUTHOR     SAYS. 

"  How  much  better  you  are  looking ! " 

In  his  own  mind  he  has  been  practising  this  little 
speech — practising  it  with  the  proper  intonation  of  half- 
surprised  cheerfulness;  when  he  comes  to  pronounce  it 
really,  it  is  a  failure.  There  is  a  strained  gayety  in  his 
tone  that  would  hardly  deceive  a  baby. 

"  More  perjuries,"  she  says,  with  a  languid  smile,  look- 
ing up  at  him  half-compassionately  from  her  couch.  "  I 
will  dispense  you  from  telling  any  more  stories ;  you  told 
a  great  many  the  other  day,  but  I  do  not  think  they  will 
come  much  against  you  in  the  last  account — but  still — be 
on  the  safe  side— tell  no  more  of  them." 

"  I — I  said  nothing  but  what  I  thought,"  he  begins, 
with  a  stammering  haste,  but  her  great  clear  eyes  looking 
steadily,  though  not  unkindly  through  him,  make  his  voice 
decline  into  silence. 

"  I  have  done  crying  for  myself  now,"  she  says,  with  a 
sort  of  smile ;  "  do  not  you  think  I  have  had  plenty  of 
time  to  do  that  in,  during  these  last  long,  endless  nights  ? 
I  could  not  have  believed  a  summer  night  could  be  so  long. 
I  have  been  sorrier  for  myself  than  I  ever  was  for  anybody 
else — but — but — I  am  getting  used  to  it — I  kick  and  scream 
no  longer.  Where  is  the  use  ?  " 

What  had  become  of  the  stiff  smile  into  which  he  had 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  417 

so  carefully  trained  his  features  ?  He  has  taken  possession 
of  one  of  her  pale  hands ;  he  seems  to  be  very  welcome  to 
it ;  she  does  not  care  whether  he  has  it  or  has  it  not ;  he 
has  stooped  and  laid  his  bronzed  cheek  upon  it  to  hide  his 

face. 

"  '  As  flies  to  wanton  boys,  so  we  to  the  gods  ; 
They  kill  us  for  their  sport '  " — 

she  says,  dreamily  repeating  this  couplet  out  of  "King1 
Lear."  "  I  suppose  they  are  killing  me  for  their  sport  ?  " 

"  You  are  not  to  talk.  Jemima  says  so,"  he  says,  rais- 
ing his  head,  and  speaking  with  a  tone  of  shocked  distress. 

"Bah!"  she  answers,  slightingly,  "if  I  am  silent  for- 
ever, will  it  save  me  ?  Do  you  think  that,  if  I  thought 
there  was  the  remotest  chance  of  that,  I  would  once  open 
my  lips  ?  But  what  is  the  use  of  setting  up  one's  little 
bit  of  life,  like  an  end  of  candle  on  a  save-all,  to  make  it 
burn  a  few  moments  longer?"  A  little  dumb  pause. 
"  You  are  crying,"  she  says,  presently,  with  one  of  her  old 
quick  and  irritable  movements,  which  contrasts  oddly  and 
painfully  with  her  changed  and  almost  extinguished  voice. 
"  I  hate  to  see  a  man  cry !  It  is  unnatural — womanish — 
it  always  makes  me  inclined  to  laugh." 

"  For  God's  sake,  laugh,  if  you  feel  disposed  I "  he 
says,  fiercely,  dashing  away  his  tears,  as  if  ashamed  and 
angry  at  them.  "  I  have  been  your  butt  always,  Lenore  ! 
I  am  willing  to  be  so  still." 

"  Are  you  going  to  quarrel  with  me  ?  "  she  asks  queru- 
Idusly.  "  I  suppose  so ;  sooner  or  later  everybody  does." 

"  Do  they  ?  "  (speaking  softly,  and  again  stooping  his 
head,  to  kiss  her  fingers). 

"  You  blame  me  for  talking,"  she  says,  presently,  with 
a  sort  of  weary  pettishness,  "  and  then  you  do  not  volun- 
teer a  word  yourself.  Some  one  must  speak ;  we  cannot 
both  sit  dumb — mumchance." 


418  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

"  You  are  right,"  he  says,  making  a  great  effort  to 
speak  easily  and  lightly.  "I  am  more  than  ordinarily 
stupid  to-day — headachy,  I  think — cobwebby." 

"  At  least,  do  not  look  so  woe-begone,"  she  says,  staring 
at  him  with  discontented,  tired  eyes  ;  "  you  make  it  worse 
for  me — harder.  I  have  been  trying  to  persuade  myself 
that  what  happens  to  every  one  cannot  be  so  very  bad — 
but  you — your  face  upsets  me ! " 

"How  can  I  mend  it?  "he  says,  humbly  and  fondly. 
"I  will  try." 

"  After  all,  it  is  no  such  great  catastrophe,"  she  says, 
with  a  little  bitter  laugh ;  "  nobody  is  much  to  be  pitied 
but  me — nobody  cares  much  except  myself,  and,  perhaps, 
you.  Jemima  thinks  she  is  enormously  grieved  ;  she  pulls 
a  long  face,  but  it  is  easy  to  see  that  it  will  not  be  the 
death  of  her — that  she  will  survive  many  long  and  happy 
years  to  talk  about '  poor  dear  Lenore.' " 

He  silently  caresses  her  hand,  but  does  not  trust  him- 
self to  embark  on  any  speech. 

"  Ho*w  strong  you  are ! "  she  says,  her  eyes  wandering 
steadily  and  coldly,  with  a  sort  of  envy,  over  his  face  and 
figure. 

"  Certainly  there  are  hands  and  hands  "  (again  taking 
possession  of  her  own,  and  laying  it  beside  his  to  compare 
them).  "  If  you  do  not  play  tricks  with  yourself — if  you 
are  moderately  steady — what  a  long  life  you  will  probably 
have,  full  of  action  and  pleasure  and  pleasant  business ! 
O  my  God ! " — (breaking  out  into  the  passionate  and  so- 
absolutely-useless  upbraidings  that  we  sometimes  address 
to  the  great  Power  above  us) — "  it  is  not  fair — indeed  it  is 
not.  How  have  you  been  so  much  better  than  I,  that  you 
should  live  so  many  happy  years  after  I  am  gone  ?  " 

"  O  my  love  ! "  he  cries,  in  a  tone  of  the  acutest  pain, 
"  why  do  you  throw  my  strength  in  my  teeth  ?  Can  I 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  419 

help  it  ?  Do  you  think  it  gives  me  any  pleasure  ?  Do  you 
think  that  if  I  could  be  weak  and  sinking  like  you — now — 
this  minute — that  I  should  complain  much  ?  " 

"  Of  course  you  would,"  she  answers,  feebly  but  brusque- 
ly, "as  much  as  I  do.  Of  course  you  are  glad  to  be 
strong ;  you  would  be  an  idiot  if  you  were  not ;  as  long  as 
one  has  good  health,  one  has  every  thing  !  one  can  get 
over  every  other  trouble  but  that — that — " 

He  shakes  his  head  dissentingly.  More  than  once  the 
effort  of  talking  has  brought  on  an  access  of  coughing, 
but  Scrope's  remonstrances  are  vain ;  she  is  resolute  to 
carry  on  the  conversation. 

"  Fifty  years  hence  you  will  probably  still  be  here,"  she 
says,  in  the  same  faint,  envious  voice.  "  You  are  twenty- 
eight  now — yes — a  hale,  strong  man  of  seventy-eight — still 
alive — still  enjoying — children  and  grandchildren  all  about 
you." 

"  Never ! "  he  says,  violently  starting  up,  and  walking 
about  the  room  in  disordered  haste.  "  I  shall  never  have 
a  child !  If  you  leave  me,  Lenore,  I  shall  never  have  a 
wife." 

"  Pooh ! "  she  says,  contemptuously,  "  five  years  hence 
you  will  be  a  respectable  pere  de  famille.  What  do  I 
say  ?  Five  years  ? — three — two — and,  when  you  are  talk- 
ing about  your  conquests,  you  will  have  to  think  twice 
before  you  can  recollect  what  color  my  eyes  were,  or  which 
of  the  dry,  dirty  hair-locks  in  your  pocket-book  was  mine." 

"  At  least  you  are  consistent,"  he  cries,  fiercely,  stop- 
ping suddenly  beside  her,  his  face  white  and  disfigured 
with  angry  grief;  "  all  your  life  your  object  has  been  to 
give  pain.  Well,  I  congratulate  you ;  weak  and  changed 
as  you  are  in  other  ways,  you  are  still  unchanged  in  that — 
are  still  as  able  as  ever  to  cut  to  the  heart." 

"Why  should  not  I?"  she  says  wearily,  rolling  her 


/ " 


420  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART! 

head  from  side  to  side  on  tlie  pillow.  "  I  have  been  cut  to 
the  heart  enough  in  my  day ;  why  should  not  other  people 
go  shares  with  me  ?  .  .  .  .  Until  we  went  to  Dinan,"  she 
resumes,  by-and-by,  "  I  had  always  had  my  own  way ;  I 
never  remember  the  time  when  I  had  not.  I  always  said 
that,  if  ever  I  not  did  get  my  own  will  in  any  thing,  it  would 
be  the  death  of  me.  I  remember  telling  Paul  so  almost 
the  first  time  I  saw  him ;  I  thought  it  rather  a  fine  thing 
to  say ;  I  never  dreamed  of  its  coming  true,  but  it  has." 

"  Not  yet — not  yet ! "  he  remonstrates,  passionately. 

"  Not  that  I  am  dying  of  love,"  she  says,  raising  her- 
self, and  speaking  with  more  energy  than  she  has  yet 
shown.  "  Never  say,  or  let  any  one  else  say,  that.  What- 
ever tales  one  may  have  heard  to  that  effect,  I  do  not 
believe  any  one  ever  did  such  a  thing  in  this  world.  If 
I  had  not  been  sickly  to  begin  with,  I  could  not  have 
fretted  myself  into  my  grave,  however  hard  I  had  tried. 
I  should  have  grown  yellow,  and  pinched,  and  withered, 
before  my  time,  but  should  have  lived.  Yes,  if  I  had  not 
been  sickly,  radically  sickly,  to  begin  with,  I  should  have 
lived." 

"  Live  now !  "  he  cries  wildly,  throwing  himself  down 
on  his  knees  beside  her  sofa,  and  looking  up  with  all  the 
sorrowful  madness  of  his  blue  eyes  into  her  face.  "  Why 
should  not  you  ?  Perhaps  you  will  never  again  be  very 
strong,  but  there  is  no  reason  why  you  may  not  live — yes, 
live  for  many  years.  This  climate  is  too  harsh  for  you ; 
when  you  grow  a  little  stronger,  let  me  take  you  away  to  a 
warmer,  suaver  one — to  Italy — the  south  of  France;  let 
me  take  you,  Lenore — take  my  wife — the  only  wife  I  shall 
ever  have." 

"  Your  wife  !  "  she  says,  with  a  smile  wholly  sorrowful 
yet  touched  with  a  little  gratification.  "  I  thought  we  had 
heard  the  last  of  that  old  story." 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  421 

"Never!"  he  answers,  vehemently.  "Never!  As 
long  as  I  am  near  you,  you  will  never  hear  the  last  of  it." 

"  If  you  honestly  wish  to  marry  me,"  she  says,  looking 
half-gratefully  at  him  with  her  large  and  languid  eyes ;  "  yes, 
you  look  honest,  it  is  a  way  you  have ;  but,  if  you  wish  it 
seriously,  it  must  be  only  as  a  penance.  Even  good  men, 
who  have  loved  their  wives  to  begin  with,  if  they  fall  sick, 
and  remain  for  a  long  time  ailing  invalids,  grow  tired  of 
them;  against  their  will  they  grow  tired  of  them.  If 
I  lasted  long  enough,  you  would  grow  tired,  heartily  tired, 
of  me." 

•"  Should  I?"  (with  an  expressive  accent). 

Again  she  shakes  her  head. 

"  There  are  worthier  occupations  in  life  for  a  young  and 
handsome  man  than  carrying  cushions  and  shaking  physic- 
bottles." 

"  Tastes  differ,"  he  says,  smiling  a  little,  though  not 
very  merrily.  "  I  think  not." 

"  Who  could  love  me  now  ?  "  she  asks,  with  a  move- 
ment of  disbelieving  self-contempt.  "  Aimer  cVamour,  I 
mean ;  they  might  love  me  in  the  sense  in  which  good  and 
tender-hearted  people  love  any  thing  that  is  miserable  and 
suffering ;  but  that  is  not  the  way  in  which  I  used  to  be 
loved — not  the  way  in  which  I  care  to  be  loved." 

"  Neither  is  it  the  way  in  which  I  love  you,"  he  an- 
swers, firmly. 

"  Why  do  you  tantalize  me  ?  "  she  cries,  angrily,  push- 
ing her  heavy  hair  irritably  away  from  her  blue-veined  tem- 
ples; "  talking  about  what  we  shall  do  if  I  live.  I  shall 
not  live— I  shall  die  !  Often — so  often — in  the  past  nights, 
when  you  have  all  been  comfortably,  warmly  asleep,  I  have 
said  over  and  over  to  myself,  l  Lenore  Herrick  is  dead, 
trying  how  it  would  sound." 

"  Hush — hush  1 "    he  says,  unutterably  pained ;  then, 


422  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

after  a  little  silence,  "  Lenore  "  (speaking  with  a  shaking 
voice  and  quivering  features),  "  even  if  you  are  right — even 
if  you  are  not  to  live  long — why  do  you  make  me  face  this 
frightful  possibility  ?  But  even  if  it  is  so,  let  me  at  least 
be  able  to  look  back  out  of  my  desolation,  and  think,  that 
though  God  was  in  a  hurry  to  part  us,  yet  that  for  a  short 
time — after  long  and  weary  waiting — you  were  my  very 
own — belonging  to  me — called  by  my  name." 

"  If  I  am  to  die,"  she  says,  harshly,  "  what  does  it 
matter  what  name  I  am  called  by  ? — what  name  is  cut  on 
my  gravestone  ?  Shall  I  lie  any  the  easier  because  you 
wear  crape  and  weepers  for  me  ?  " 

Again  he  says,  "  Hush  !  hush !  " 

"  You  are  unwise  to  wish  that  I  were  well,"  she  says 
presently,  with  a  sort  of  pitying  smile ;  "  it  is  against  your 
own  interest.  I  am  quite  fond  of  you  now — quite  !  I  like 
to  feel  your  hand  coolly  clasping  mine ;  I  like  to  send  you 
on  messages ;  you  are  so  zealous  and  so  speedy.  I  like  to 
see  your  handsome,  sorrowful  face  come  in  at  the  door." 

Again  he  bends  his  head  over  her  hand  to  hide  his 
dumb  agony. 

"  If  you  had  not  been  here,  I  should  have  sadly  felt  the 
want  of  some  one  to  cry  over  me,"  she  continues  mourn- 
fully smiling ;  "  nobody  else  would  have  done  it,  certainly. 
I  do  not  blame  them ;  I  never  cried  over  anybody  else,  or 
was  at  all  pitiful  or  sympathetic  in  my  day.  I  reap  my 
own  sowing,  but  still  it  is  pleasanter  as  it  is." 

He  is  kissing  her  hands  over  and  over  again,  but  he 
makes  no  rejoinder. 

"  But  yet,"  she  pursues,  gravely,  "  I  have  a  misgiving 
that,  if  I  grew  strong  and  well  again,  I  should  have  as  lit- 
tle relish  for  your  society  as  ever;  I  should  shrink  from 
your  touch,  and  fly  at  the  distant  sound  of  your  voice,  as  I 
did  in  the  old  days  of  our  engagement.  Do  not  look  mis- 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  423 

erable ;  my  affection  for  you  will  never  be  put  to  that  test 
— only  say  nothing  more  about  my  being  your  wife  ;  I  wish 
for  that  as  little  as  ever.  I  love  you  as  a  child  loves  its 
nurse,  not  as  a  woman  loves  her  husband." 

Poor  Scrope !  his  last  Spanish  castle  has  fallen  into 
ruin :  by  her  cold  and  friendly  words  she  has  torn  into  tat- 
ters the  airy  fabric  of  his  last  poor  dream. 

"  I  was  wrong,"  he  says,  after  a  pause,  in  a  strangled 
voice,  "  selfish  as  I  always  am.  I  will  be — be — content." 

A  long,  long  silence.  'Outside,  the  cheery  footsteps  of 
guests  in  the  hotel  running  down-stairs,  in  preparation  for 
some  pleasant  expedition ;  loud  and  happy  voices  calling 
to  one  another.  Lenore  lies  back,  with  closed  eyes,  ex- 
hausted by  the  previous  conversation,  and  yet  it  is  she  that 
resumes  it. 

"  How  long  do  they  give  me  ? "  she  asks,  faintly,  but 
calmly ;  "  if  you  are  truly  my  friend,  you  will  tell  me. — 
No  ?  "  Well,  then,  I  must  remain  in  my  ignorance." 

Another  pause  ;  the  gay  picnic-party  have  packed  them- 
selves into  their  carriage ;  with  a  noise  of  wheels  and  bells 
they  are  off. 

"  Before  you  go,"  says  Lenore,  again  speaking,  "  I  have 
one  more  thing  to  say  to  you ;  it  will  pain  you  sharply, 
but  that  is  nothing  new,  is  it  ?  You  will  writhe  and  shudder, 
as  I  have  already  seen  you  do  two  or  three  times  to-day — 
well — I  cannot  help  it — you  are  the  only  person  I  can 
speak  to  about  it ;  if  I  were  to  broach  the  subject  to  Jemi- 
ma, she  would  put  her  fingers  in  her  ears,  and  run  out  of 
the  room. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  asks,  indistinctly. 

"  When — it  is — all  over,"  she  says,  very  slowly,  but 
with  composure,  "  when  I  am — gone,  do  not  let  them  take 
me  back  to  England ;  was  not  it  Chateaubriand  who  said 
that  there  was  something  revolting  to  him  in  the  idea  of  a 


424  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

dead  person  on  a  journey? — well — I  agree  with  him. 
Make  them  bury  me  here — in  the  little  mountain  grave- 
yard, where  you  and  I  sat  on  that  Sunday  evening,  when 
first  you  came — are  you  listening  ? — will  you  promise  ?  " 

"  I  promise,"  he  answers,  unsteadily. 

"  How  grand  it  was  1 "  she  says,  leaning  back,  with 
closed  eyes,  and  smiling  dreamily,  "  I  see  them  now — all 
those  great  peaks  cutting  the  pale-green  sky  with  their 
jagged  teeth — now  that  I  am  to  leave  the  world  so  soon, 
I  wish  it  were  uglier ;  perhaps  'it  would  be  easier  to  go — 
O  my  God  1 "  (opening  her  eyes,  and  clasping  her  hands 
together  in  utter  bitterness  of  spirit),  "  I  do  love  this  very 
world — just  as  it  is — other  people  find  fault  with  it,  but  I 
do  not — I  love  it — I  love  it — oh,  why  may  not  I  stay  a  lit- 
tle in  it  ?  " 

"  Bury  me  under  the  west  wall,"  she  says,  "  beneath 
the  catchfly  and  the  blown  dandelions !  " 


CHAPTER  XI. 

WHAT     JEMIMA     SAYS. 

YET  another  month  has  smoothly  slidden  past,  and  we 
are  here  still.  We  know  not  how  much  longer  we  may 
have  to  bide  here ;  but,  alas  1  we  do  know  that  when  we 
go  we  shall  not  all  go ;  but  that  one  of  us,  whether  we 
will  it  or  not,  must  stay  behind.  One  of  us  God  has  called, 
saying  to  her,  both  in  the  dark  night  and  in  the  broad  blue 
noon,  "  Come  ! "  and  to  that  strong  bidding  there  can  be 
said  no  "  Nay."  This  is  an  invitation  to  which  we  cannot 
say,  "I  will  not,"  or  "I  will."  Bidden,  one  must  go. 


WHAT  JfiMIMA  SAYS.  425 

Thus  our  Lenore  is  going.  We  say  so  now,  and  so  it  is. 
At  first,  we  did  not  breathe  it  even  to  ourselves ;  then, 
after  a  while,  each  whispered  it  low  to  her  own  sad  heart : 
now,  we  say  it  aloud  to  one  another. 

"We  have  been  here  ten  weeks ;  the  summer,  that  we 
found  in  its  first  cool  youth,  has  now  assumed  the  hot 
gravity  of  its  August  ripeness.  We  have  outlived  many 
lovely  dynasties  of  the  flowers  ;  have  seen  them  arise  and 
prosper,  and  then  sweetly  die.  O  flowers  !  give  us  a  les- 
son ;  teach  us  your  way  of  dying,  your  gentle,  unregretting 
extinction.  Our  Death  is  a  cruel  fellow ;  he  is  not  content 
to  take  us  with  a  kindly  mildness.  Did  he  but  stretch  out 
a  friendly  hand  to  us,  some  among  us  would  not  be  over- 
loath  to  put  ours  in  it,  and  go  away  with  him  whither  he 
list.  But  he  comes  with  his  eyeless,  ash-gray  skull-face ; 
with  his  racks  and  his  scourges — can  he  blame  us  that  we 
shrink  and  shiver  away  from  him  ?  Lenore  has  been  look- 
ing him  steadily  in  the  face  now,  for  a  long  time  past,  but 
still  she  shivers,  still  she  pales,  at  the  sound  of  his  nearing 
feet.  Lenore  is  among  those  who  go,  knowing  it.  Some 
depart  smiling ;  ignorantly  babbling  of  fond  home  trifles, 
with  eyes  still  fixed  on  earth's  dear,  sunshiny  hills  and 
plains.  Qverhead  in  the  flood  are  they  plunged,  or  ever  they 
know  that  they  are  within  sight  of  its  bank.  But  Lenore 
knows.  I  am  uncertain  whether  we  should  ever  have  had 
the  heart  to  tell  her ;  whether  we  should  not  have  let  her 
slip  into  the  next  world,  without  being  aware  of  it.  For 
myself,  I  think  it  the  kinder  plan ;  I  think  that,  to  one 
whom  God  has  summoned,  Himself  will  reveal  it  in  meet 
time,  without  the  intervention  of  any  harsh  human  voice 
saying  roughly,  "  You  will  die."  But,  as  you  know,  an 
accident  has  revealed  it  to  Lenore.  Sometimes  she  for- 
gets it  for  a  moment ;  sometimes  the  conquered  spirit  of 
youth  reasserts  itself;  sometimes  she  talks  gayly  of  what 


426  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

she  will  do  next  year ;  sometimes  she  rives  our  hearts  by 
making  plans  for  the  winter,  whose  snows  she  will  never 
feel,  for  the  now-distant  spring,  whose  flowers  will  open 
upon  her  grave.  But  it  is  only  for  a  little  while  that  the 
beautiful  illusion  lives  ;  always  it  vanishes,  as  the  cold  dew 
vanishes  from  the  fine,  fresh  morning  grass. 

It  is  a  fearfully  hot  day,  softly  overcast;  the  keen 
mountain-air,  cool  and  crisp,  which  so  rarely  fails  from 
these  high  places,  has  gone  to  draw  new  sharpness  from  the 
snows,  and  left  us  gasping.  A  silent  day,  but  for  the 
loud  rumblings  of  the  thunder  in  the  great,  grand  hills. 

Sylvia  sits  in  her  bedroom >  crying  over  the  last  volume 
of  a  Tauchnitz  novel,  benevolently  lent  her  by  Mrs.  Scrope, 
which  makes  her  hotter  still.  Lenore  lies,  with  heavy  eye- 
lids drooped  over  sunk  eyes,  on  the  sofa  in  our  sitting- 
room  ;  it  has  been  transformed,  as  much  as  possible,  into 
the  likeness  of  a  couch,  and  drawn  up  close  to  the  window, 
to  catch  any  stray  little  travelling  breeze.  Breathing  is 
always  difficult  to  Lenore  now,  but  to-day  specially  so.  I 
am  sitting  beside  her,  fanning  her.  She  expressed  a  while 
ago  a  sudden  longing  for  lemonade,  as  a  nice,  cool  drink. 
I  ask  Kolb  to  make  me  some,  as  it  is  a  beverage  that  does 
not  grow  ready-made  in  these  parts.  Kolb's  lemonade  is 
produced  by  pouring  hot  water  on  lemons ;  five  minutes 
ago  it  entered  boiling.  I  have  been  pouring  the  whole 
stock  of  water  contained  in  my  bedroom's  tiny  ewer  and 
bottle  into  a  wash-hand  basin,  and  causing  the  lemonade- 
jug  to  stand  in  it,  in  the  forlorn  hope  of  cooling  it  through 
the  agency  of  this  half-pint  of  tepid  water.  Now  I  have 
returned  to  Lenore,  and  am  fanning  her  again.  The  lan- 
guid flies  come  and  march  about  upon  her  outflung  arms, 
with  their  little  tickling,  maddening  legs,  and  when  I 
strike  out  wildly  and  indignantly  at  them,  with  a  little 
self-conscious  buzz  they  fly  away  and  elude  me.  With  my 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SATS.  427 

resentful  eyes  I  have  followed  one  to  the  wall,  where  he 
stands  twisting  his  hind-legs  together.  Then  my  sad  gaze 
returns  to  the  place  where  it  has  dwelt  all  morning — Le- 
nore's  sunken,  weary,  pained  face  ;  the  face  that  might  as 
well  be  any  one  else's,  for  all  resemblance  that  it  bears  to 
hers — hers,  our  beauty  !  O  bad,  cruel  Death  !  Why  can- 
not you  take  us  all  at  once,  without  first  stealing  beauty 
and  grace  and  harmony  ?  Do  you  care  to  hold  nothing 
but  disfigurement  and  decay  in  your  frosty  arms  ?  I  am 
sorrowfully  pondering  on  the  probability  of  her  passing  to- 
day— half  wishing  it,  and  yet  half  grudging — when  her 
eyes  slowly  unclose,  and  she  speaks. 

"  You  fan  me  badly,"  she  says,  feebly  and  complain- 
ingly  ;  "  so  irregularly,  and  intermittently — not  half  so 
well  as  Charlie  does.  Send  him." 

"  But,  my  dear,"  I  say,  gently  remonstrating,  "  you  al- 
ways will  talk  to  him,  you  know,  and  you  are  not  up  to 
it." 

"  I  mean  to  talk  to  him,"  she  says,  with  a  pitiful  shadow 
of  her  old  resolute  wilfulness.  "  I  have  something  to  say 
to  him — something  I  must  say  to  him — a  favor  to  ask  of 
him." 

"  A  favor  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answers,  petulantly,  "  a  favor ;  but  it  is 
nothing  to  you  ;  it  is  not  you  that  I  am  going  to  ask — send 
him." 

So  I  obey.  I  find  him  sitting  in  his  own  room,  his 
hands  thrust  into  his  tossed  bright  hair,  and  his  eyes,  red 
with  watching  and  weeping,  idly  fixed  on  the  cruel  color 
of  the  unfeeling  smiling  hills.  "  She  has  sent  for  you,"  I 
say,  entering  listlessly.  "  She  says  you  fan  her  so  much 
better  than  I  do.  She  has  also  something  to  say  to  you,  a 
favor  to  ask — a  favor — what  can  it  be  ?  "  I  end,  a  little  in- 
quisitively. He  does  not  pay  any  heed  to  my  curiosity ; 


428  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

he  is  already  in  the  passage  when  I  call  him  back.  "  Stay," 
I  say ;  "  before  you  go,  bathe  your  eyes  and  try  to  smile  ; 
you  know,  poor  soul,  she — she  likes  us  to  look  cheerful." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

WHAT     THE     AUTHOR     SATS. 

"  How  long  you  have  been ! "  she  says,  querulously. 
"  I  thought  you  were  never  coming.  You  might  have 
made  a  little  haste." 

"  I  will  be  quicker  next  time,  darling,"  he  answers, 
kneeling  down  gently  beside  her,  and  speaking  firmly  and 
cheerfully. 

"  Fan  me,"  she  says,  panting ;  "  fan  me  strongly  and 
regularly."  r 

She  lies  back  exhausted,  and  he  hears  her  mutter : 

"  At  least  wherever  I  go,  I  shall  have  breath." 

Utter  silence  for  five  minutes,  save  for  the  gentle  noise 
made  by  the  winnowing  of  the  fan. 

"  Lift  me,"  she  says,  stretching  out  her  arms  to  him. 
"  Lying  down  I  gasp." 

He  lifts  her  with  delicate  care,  and  her  dying  head 
droops  in  sisterly  abandoment  on  his  kind  shoulder. 

"  Dear  old  fellow,"  she  says,  faintly ;  "  kind  old 
brother." 

Yet  another  pause ;  no  sustained  conversation  is  possi- 
ble. 

"  I  am  going  very  fast,  Charlie." 

"  Yes,  darling." 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  429 

"  I  was  always  one  to  do  things  quickly,  if  I  did  them 
at  all— I  was  never  a  dawdle." 

No  answer. 

"  You  will  get  away  before  the  season  is  over,  after  all." 

"O  love,  hush!" 

"You  would  do  something  to  oblige  me,  would  not 
you,  Charlie?" 

"  Any  thing  possible,  beloved." 

"  But  supposing  it  were  impossible  ?  " 

"  Still  I  would  do  it." 

"  That  is  right,"  she  answers,  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  I  am  glad." 

Then  she  is  again  silent  for  a  long  time.  The  thunder 
still  grumbles  deeply  in  the  hot  heart  of  the  hills,  and  the 
flies  still  walk  about  torpidly  upon  her  white  wrapper. 

"  You  know  all  the  old  story — about  Paul,"  she  says, 
presently,  with  a  little  excitement  in  her  faint  and  hollow 
voice. 

"  Yes,  I  know  it." 

"  You  know  the  reason  why  I  have  borrowed  the  adver- 
tisement sheet  of  your  Times  every  day  ?  " 

"  I — I  have  guessed  it." 

"  I  have  daily  looked  carefully  through  the  marriages," 
she  says,  with  a  sort  of  feeble  eagerness,  "  but  I  have  never 
seen  his" 

"  Neither  have  I." 

A  long  and  painful  fit  of  coughing  intervenes. 

"  Tell  me  the  rest  to-morrow,"  he  says,  gently  bending 
over  her. 

She  smiles  slightly. 

"  It  is  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk — you,  who  are  rich  in 
to-morrows.     How  do  I  know  that  I  have  one  ?  " 

Again  he  fans  her,  trying  to  coax  the  cool  little  waves 
of  air  to  her  hot  and  parted  lips. 


430  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  He  said  it — was — to  be — immediately"  she  murmurs, 
after  a  pause ;  "  since  it  has  not  been  yet — perhaps — it 
will  never  be." 

"  Perhaps." 

"  Very  likely  it  is  broken  off,"  she  says,  a  ray  of  pleas- 
ure lighting  up  her  face.  "  I  never  told  you  so  before — 
but — between  ourselves — I  do  not  think — he  was  very 
eager  about  it.  No  doubt  it  is  broken  off." 

"  No  doubt." 

She  has  taken  his  hand,  and  is  stroking  it  with  a  sort 
of  patronizing  caressingness. 

"  Kind,  good,  patient  Charlie  !  "  she  says,  softly. 
"Whose  errands  will  you  run  on — when  I  am  gone  ?" 

No  answer. 

"  I  have  one  more  errand  to  send  you  on,"  she  con- 
tinues, with  feeble  eagerness  ;  "  longer,  disagreeabler,  more 
difficult,  than  any  of  the  others.  Will  you  run  on  it,  too  ?  " 

"  O  beloved,  try  me  ! " 

"  There  is  at  least  one  advantage  in  being  in  a  dying 
state,"  she  sgys,  by-and-by,  gravely  and  solemnly ;  "  as 
long  as  I  was  well  I  could  not  send  for  him — could  not  ask 
him  to  come  back  to  me — could  not  move  a  finger  to  bring 
him — all  the  advances  must  have  come  from  him.  But 
now — now — I  may  send  for  whom  I  please,  and  no  one  will 
call  me  unmaidenly,  will  they  ?  " 

"  No  one,"  he  answers  steadily,  though  his  face  is 
drawn  with  the  pain  of  finding  that  still,  in  those  last 
hours,  he  is  second,  always  second.  She  is  looking 
earnestly  at  him  ;  her  large  gray  eyes — unnaturally,  unbe- 
comingly large  now — are  reading  his  countenance  like  an 
open  book. 

"  It  hurts  you,"  she  says,  calmly ;  "  well,  I  have  always 
hurt -you.  I  suppose  you  like  it,  or  you  would  not  have 
stayed  with  me,  but  would  have  gone,  as  Paul  did.  Well, 


WHAT  THE  AUTHOR  SAYS.  431 

have  I  made  you  understand  ?  I  wish  to  send  for  him." 
For  a  second  he  turns  away  his  head,  and  gathers  his 
strength  together ;  then  he  says,  kindly  and  gently : 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  write  or  telegraph  ?  " 

"  I  wish  neither,"  she  answers,  with  a  little  impatience ; 
"  do  you  think  that  that  is  my  errand  ?  That  would  not 
be  a  very  hard  one,  just  to  walk  down  to  the  post-office ;  I 
might  charge  even  Sylvia  with  that.  Listen:  of  course 
you  need  not  do  it  unless  you  wish  ;  of  course  I  cannot 
make  you.  I  wish  to  make  sure.  I  wish  you  to  go  and 
fetch  him." 

He  gives  an  involuntary  start  of  utter  pain  and  anguish. 

"  And  leave  yow,  O  my  darling  ?  " 

"  And  leave  me,"  she  echoes,  pettishly ;  "  what  good 
do  you  do  me  ?  What  good  does  any  one  do  me  ?  Can 
you  give  me  breath  or  sleep  ?  " 

He  rises  and  walks  to  the  window.  The  evening  draws 
on,  and  the  thunder  is  dumb.  He  looks  out  on  the  great 
mountains — lilac  while  the  sun  is  setting,  gray  when  he  is 
gone — the  mountains  whose  playfellows  the  swift  snow- 
storms are,  and  about  whose  necks  the  clouds  wreathe 
their  wet,  white  arms ;  looks  at  the  deep  torrent  courses 
that  furrow  their  sides,  and  at  the  straight,  dark  pines, 
which  the  winter  strips  not,  and  to  whom  lavish  Spring, 
with  her  gentian- wreath,  and  her  lap  full  of  flowered 
grasses,  brings  no  embellishment ;  looks  at  them  all,  with- 
out seeing  them.  Then  he  comes  back  to  the  couch-side, 
and  says — 

"  I  will  go." 

"  You  think  he  will  not  come  ?  "  she  says,  looking  wist- 
fully at  him.  "  I  see  it  in  your  face,  but  I  know  better ;  if 
you  had  seen  him  at  Bergun,  you  would  have  thought  dif- 
ferently. Yes"  (with  a  little,  shining  smile),  "he  will 
come  ! " 


432  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 

"  There  is  no  doubt  of  it,"  he  replies,  quietly. 

"  Even  if  he  is  married  he  will  come,"  she  says,  still 
smiling  ;  "  his  wife  will  spare  him  for  those  few  days,  and, 
if  she  hesitates,  you  may  tell  her  that,  whatever  I  was 
once,  I  am  not  a  person  to  be  jealous  of  now." 

Silence. 

" You  will  set  off  to-morrow  morning,  early"  she  says, 
feverishly.  "  I  am  afraid  it  is  too  late  to-day.  You  know 
his  address  ?  Oh,  yes,  of  course ;  you  have  been  there  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you  will  certainly  bring  him — certainly  f  " 

"Yes." 

She  closes  her  eyes  with  a  long  sigh  of  relief.  She  lies 
so  still  that  he  is  uncertain  whether  she  sleeps ;  but,  after 
a  time,  she  opens  them  again. 

"  You  wonder  why  I  wish  so  much  to  see  him  again," 
she  says,  slowly,  "  when  he  does  not  wish  to  see  me ;  you 
think  it  is  love.  No,  it  is  not.  When  one  is  as  sick  as  I 
am,  one  is  past  love ;  only  all  the  night  through  his  face 
vexes  me.  I  am  worried  with  it ;  it  never  leaves  me ; 
I  torment  myself  trying  to  recall  every  line  of  it.  I  must 
see  whether  I  have  remembered  it  right ;  it  has  been  with 
me  every  moment  in  this  world.  I  must  take  it,  distinct 
and  clear,  with  me  into  the  next." 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  433 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

" Lilies  for  a  bridal-bed; 
Roses  for  a  matron's  head  ; 
Violets  for  a  maiden  dead." 

WHAT     JEMIMA     SATS. 

CHARLIE  is  gone.  Very  early  to-day  he  set  off.  I  stood 
by  him  on  the  steps,  in  the  cool  of  the  young  and  shining 
morning,  as  he  prepared  to  step  into  the  carriage  which 
was  to  take  him  up  and  down  the  long,  steep  mountain- 
passes  to  Chur. 

"  Keep  her  till  I  come  back,"  he  said,  wringing  my 
hand  with  unknowing  violence.  "  If  I  come  back  to  find 
her  gone,  I  shall  never  forgive  you — never.  Promise ! " 

"  How  can  I  promise  ?  "  I  said,  sorrowfully.  "  Have 
I  life  and  death  in  my  hand  ?  How  can  I  hinder  her 
going  ?  " 

So  he  is  gone,  and  we  are  waiting — waiting  with 
strained  ears  and  hot  eyes — to  see  which  will  win  the  race 
to  Lenore's  side,  Death  or  Paul.  Lenore  herself  fights  with 
all  her  strength — alas,  how  little ! — with  a  strength  not 
her  own — on  Paul's  side.  She  refuses  to  die.  For  more 
than  a  week  past  she  has  turned  with  loathing  from  every 
species  of  nourishment ;  now  she  demands  it  greedily. 
She  will  not  speak — will  not  utter  a  word — for  fear  of  wast- 
ing the  little  breath  that  remains  to  her.  People  are  very 
kind  ;  every  hour  of  the  day  solicitous  faces  meet  us  on  the 
landing-place,  with  pitying  gestures  and  expressions  of 
sympathy.  Guests  in  the  hotel  tread  softly,  and  scold  their 
children  when  they  hear  them  whooping  and  noisily  tum- 
bling, with  the  utter  unfeelingness  of  childhood,  down  the 
slight  stairs,  and  along  the  thin-walled  passages. 
19 


434  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!" 


And  now  all  the  days  between  Scrope's  going  and  his 
expected  back-coming  have  rolled  away.  Before  he  went, 
we  calculated  accurately  together  distances  and  times ;  this 
is  the  day  on  which  he  engaged  to  return.  Lenore  is  still 
here — still  fighting — disputing  her  life,  inch  by  inch,  hand 
to  hand,  with  the  all-victor. 

"  He  will  come  to-day,"  she  has  said,  speaking  for  the 
first  time  for  many  hours — speaking  confidently.  "  It  is 
my  lucky  day ;  something  tells  me  so." 

I  have  drawn  the  scant  window-curtain,  and  thrown 
wide  the  window,  and  looked  out  on  the  unutterable  maj- 
esty of  the  morning  hills. 

"  I  will  not  die  to-day ! "  she  says,  clinching  her  feeble 
hand.  "  I  have  some  life  left  in  me  yet — more  than  you 
think.  It  would  be  too  cruel  to  go  before  he  came ;  he 
would  be  so  disappointed."  I  turn  and  gaze  mournfully  at 
her.  Her  voice  is  stronger,  and  the  inward  excitement  of 
her  soul  has  sent  a  last  little  flame  of  color  to  her  cheeks. 
"  Let  us  be  ready  for  him,"  she  says,  with  a  tender  smile. 
"  Take  away  all  those  physic-bottles — every  thing  that  looks 
like  sickness.  Make  the  room  pretty ;  gather  plenty  of 
flowers." 

So  I  obey  her.  All  about  the  room,  following  her  di- 
rections, I  place  the  gay,  sweet  flowers.  O  wonderful, 
lovely  flowers  ! — whence  do  you  steal  your  tender  strains? 
Is  it  from  the  brown  earth  or  the  colorless  wind  ?  Later 
on,  as  the  day  draws  toward  noon,  she  expresses  a  wish  to 
be  dressed.  I  remonstrate  gently,  fearing  the  exhaustion 
consequent  on  so  unwonted  an  exertion ;  but  she  is  reso- 
lute. 

"  I  shall  wish  so  few  things  any  more,"  she  says,  simply 
and  pleadingly ;  "  you  may  as  well  let  me  have  my  way." 
Tims  I  tearfully  consent.  "  The  old  blue  gown,"  she  says, 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  435 

with  an  eager  smile ;  "  Louise  will  find  it  among  my  things. 
It  is  the  only  one  among  my  clothes  that  he  ever  praised. 
He  never  was  one  to  notice  clothes,  but  he  liked  that. 
Only  the  last  time  I  saw  him  he  was  talking  of  it." 

So,  with  many  pauses,  slowly  and  mournfully,  with 
sorrowful  faces,  as  if  we  were  already  dressing  her  for  her 
grave,  we  dress  her  in  the  old  blue  gown.  Alas !  it  is 
pitifully  large  for  her.  But  she  is  not  yet  satisfied.  In 
spite  of  pain,  in  spite  of  utter  prostration,  she  must  also 
have  her  hair  dressed — her  long,  bright  hair  —  the  one 
thing  that  remains  to  her. 

"  Plait  it  round  and  round  my  head,"  she  says,  looking 
with  feverish  entreaty  into  my  sad  face.  "  Take  great 
pains.  Put  no  frisettes — nothing  artificial ;  he  does  not 
like  it ;  but  yet  let  it  be  becoming." 

Becoming  !  at  such  a  time  !  O  God  !  Amazed  I  look 
at  her,  and  a  half  doubt  enters  my  mind  that  I  have  been 
allotting  her  too  short  a  space  of  further  life.  Her  voice 
sounds  certainly  stronger,  and  there  is  a  ray  of  living  ani- 
mation in  her  great,  sunken  eyes.  Toward  evening  she 
grows  very  restless,  and  I  hear  her  murmur  to  herself, 
"  He  must  make  haste — make  haste.  The  road  is  long  and 
steep — so  many  sharp  turns  and  twists.  I  hope  the  horses 
are  sure-footed.  But  it  is  only  for  once  /  he  might  make 
haste."  She  is  as  one  running  a'  hard  race  that  is  nearing 
the  goal,  but  hears  his  rival's  feet  close  upon  his  track,  and 
strains  every  tense  nerve  in  the  effort  and  agony  of  attain- 
ment. Will  she  attain  her  goal  ?  It  is  the  question  that,  as 
day  droops  into  night,  makes  us  all  ever  more  and  more 
breathless.  She  speaks  little  with  her  faint  lips,  but  with 
her  hunted,  piteous  eyes  she  entreats  us  to  keep  her.  I 
cannot  bear  those  eyes. 

The  light  is  gone,  and  the  candles  are  lit.  "  Let  me 
read  to  you  a  little,"  I  say,  softly,  in  a  tear-strangled 
voice. 


436  "GOOD-BYE,   SWEETHEART!" 

"  Yes,"  she  answers ;  "  yes ;  if  you  will — if  you  like." 

But  she  is  not  listening.  I  sit  down  with  the  Bible 
upon  my  knees.  I  can  hardly  see  the  page  for  tears.  I 
scarcely  know  where  I  turn.  I  begin  at  the  words  of  god- 
like consolation  that  fit  any  grief ;  that  come  never  amiss  : 
"  Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden." 
They  open  the  fount  of  my  own  sorrow,  that  requires  but 
a  touch  to  unclose  it.  "  Are  you  listening  ?  "  I  ask,  gently, 
trying  to  scan  her  face  across  the  candle's  feeble  flame. 

"  Yes,"  she  answers,  with  a  sort  of  hurry ;  "  yes — to  be 
sure — I  am  listening ! — but  read  lower ;  one  cannot  hear 
any  little  noise  outside  when  you  read  so  loud." 

Sighing,  I  lay  down  the  book,  and  walking  to  the  win- 
dow look  out — look  out  at  the  little  quarter  moon,  and  the 
travelling  stars — the  sky,  that  speaks  of  deep  and  unutter- 
able quietness — the  dark  mountain-bulks,  with  flashes  of 
silver  on  their  giant  flanks — the  narrow  street,  with  the 
lights  from  the  hotel  playing  on  the  little  houses  opposite 
— the  small,  white  cross  gleaming  in  the  moonlight — the 
solitary  pacer  down  the  tongueless  street — the  solemn 
glacier-river  that  saith  nothing  light,  but  singeth  ever  the 
plain,  hoarse  song. 

"  After  all — I  shall  have  to  go  !  "  she  says,  with  a  low 
wail.  "  I  cannot  wait — I  cannot.  O  Paul !  you  might 
have  hurried ! " 

I  here  thrust  my  head  as  far  out  of  the  window  as  it 
will  go.  I  am  listening.  At  first,  nothing  but  the  river — 
nothing !  O  river !  I  hate  you  ;  be  silent  for  once.  Then 
a  little  noise  mixes  with  it — so  small  and  uncertain  that 
one  cannot  positively  say  at  first  that  it  is  not  a  part  of  the 
stream's  roar;  then  it  separates  itself — grows  distinct — 
nears.  I  turn  to  the  bed,  with  an  unspeakable  weight 
lifted  from  my  heart.  "  He  is  coming ! "  I  say,  with  a 
smile  ;  but  already  she  has  heard.  Could  I  expect  my  ears 


WHAT  JEMIMA  SAYS.  437 

to  be  keener  than  hers  ?  Even  in  death  she  looks  very 
joyful.  As  the  carriage  noisily  rolls  up  toward  the  hotel, 
I  turn  with  the  intention  of  going  down  to  meet  the  travel- 
lers ;  but  she  stops  me. 

"Stay!"  she  says,  stretching  out  her  hand  eagerly. 
"  Do  not  go  !  I  forbid  you !  I  will  have  the  first  look !  " 

So  we  remain  in  absolute  silence  for  two  enormous 
minutes;  then  the  sound  of  a  step  running  quickly  and 
lightly  up  the  stairs — a  step — surely  there  is  only  one ! 
The  door  opens,  and  Charley  enters,  haggard,  travel- 
stained,  and  alone.  She  does  not  even  look  at  him ;  her 
eyes  are  staring,  with  an  awful,  eager  intentness,  at  the 
door  behind  him ;  but  no  one  follows,  nor  does  he  leave  it 
open,  as  if  expecting  to  be  followed.  On  the  contrary,  he 
closes  it  behind  him. 

"  Great  God ! "  I  say,  running  up  to  him,  half  out  of 
my  wits  with  excitement,  "  what  is  this  ?  You  have  come 
without  him.  You  have  not  brought  him  ! " 

He  does  not  answer. 

Putting  me  aside,  he  goes  hastily  to  the  couch,  kneels 
down  beside  it,  taking  her  gently  in  his  arms,  and  says, 
in  a  hoarse  voice  : 

"  My  darling,  I  have  broken  my  promise — but  I  could 
not  help  it — it  was  not  my  fault.  He — he — ;has  not  come, 
because — because  it  was  his  wedding-day  when  I  got  there. 
O  beloved,  speak  to  me  !  Say  you  forgive  me — you  are 
not  going  without  one  word — speak— speak  ! " 

But  Lenore  will  never  speak  to  him  any  more :  her  head 
has  sunk  back,  with  all  its  pretty,  careful  plaits,  on  his 
shoulder — Lenore  has 

"  Gone  through  the  straight  and  dreadful  pass  of  death." 


THE     END. 


LEATHER-STOCKING  NOVELS. 


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HEARTS  OF  THE  PEOPLE.  So  TRULY  PATRIOTIC  AND  AMERICAN  THROUGHOUT,  THEY 
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spirit,  motive,  and  composition  of  this  story.  Her  aims  are  eminently 
moral,  and  her  cause  comes  recom  mended  by  the  most  beautiful  associa- 
tions. These,  connected  with  the  skill  here  evinced  in  their  development, 
insure  the  success  of  her  labors."— Illustrated  News. 

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selected  for  her  field  one  of  the  most  remarkable  eras  in  modern  history— the 
reigns  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella.  The  tale  turns  on  the  extraordinary  ex- 
tent to  which  concealed  Judaism  had  gained  footing  at  that  period  in  Spain. 
It  is  marked  by  much  power  of  description,  and  by  a  woman's  delicacy  of 
touch,  and  it  will  add  to  its  writer's  well-earned  reputation."— Eclectic  Rev. 

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masterly  analysis  and  development  of  the  motives  and  feelings  of  woman's 
nature."— Critic. 

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%nd  a  copy  of  a  new  STEEL-PLATE  PORTRAIT  OP  Sir  WALTER  SCOTT,  from 
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per  volume. 

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est Ten  Dollars'  worth  to  be  found  in  the  whole  range  of  Literature.  Forty- 
three  volumes  for  $10. 

LIBRARY  EDITION   OP 

THE    WAVERLEY    NOVELS, 

Complete  in  six  volumes.  Uniform  with  the  "  Library  Edition  of  Dickens." 
Each  volume  illustrated  with  Steel  and  Wood  Engravings.  Bound  in  moroc- 
co cloth,  gilt  side  and  back.  Price,  in  cloth,  $1.75 ;  half  calf,  $3.50,  per  vol 


O  "37 

A  NOVEL. 

By  the  Eight  Honorable  BEMAM  DISRAELI,  Late  Primo  Minister  of  Great  Britain. 
"NOsse  hoec  omnia  salus  est  adolescentulis."—  Terentius. 

After  a  silence  of  twenty-three  years  (his  last  work,  "  Tancred,"  was  pub- 
lished in  1847),  this  eminent  English  novelist  reappears  with  a  work  in  hii 
best  style.  "•  Lothair1'  has  all  "the  brilliant  wit,  the  keen  and  sparkling 
satire,  and  the  refined  grace,  of  the  most  popular  of  its  predecessors.  It 
deals  with  current  topics  of  the  deepest  interest — with  Feuianism,  Ritual- 
ism, the  Catholic  Question,  the  intrigues  of  the  Jesuits,  etc.,  etc. 

NOTICES  OP  THE  PRESS. 

"  There  is  not  a  fast  character,  a  fast  trait,  or  a  fast  phrase,  in  the  wholo 
of '  Lothair,'  yet  the  etory  is  a  Btory  of  yesterday— almost  of  to-day— and 
comes  fresh  and  warm  from  the  author's  study.  .  .  « Lothair '  will  be  read 
by  the  whole  world,  will  provoke  immense  discussion,  and  will  greatly 
deepen  the  interest  with  which  the  author's  own  character,  genius,  and 
career,  have  long  been  contemplated  by  the  nation."— London  Daily  News. 

" '  Lothair '  gives  proof  of  rare  originality,  versatility,  flexibility,  force,  and 
freshness.  One  can  ouly  glance  over  the  merits  of  a  novel  so  pregnant  with 
thought  and  character,  nor  would  we  wish  to  do  more  were  it  possible.  We 
should  be  very  sorry  to  weaken  the  interest  that  must  accompany  the  peru- 
sal of  the  book.  We  had  thought  Mr.  Disraeli  dared  a  great  deal  in  risking 
his  reputation  on  another  novel,  but  now  that  we  have  read  it  we  do  not  fed 
called  upon  to  pay  him  many  compliments  on  his  courage.  As  he  wrote  he 
must  have  felt  that  the  risk  was  illusory,  and  assured  himself  that  his  pow- 
ers had  brightened  instead  of  rusting  in  half  a  lifetime  of  repose.1'— London 
Times. 

"As  a  series  of  brilliant  sketches  of  character,  with  occasional  digres. 
sions  into  abstract  and  speculative  topics, '  Lothair '  need  not  fear  comparison 
with  the  most  sparkling  of  its  author's  previous  works."— London  Observer. 

"  Nothing  of  the  original  verve  of  Mr.  Disraeli's  style  has  been  lost  by 
the  lapse  of  years.  Fresh,  as '  Coningsby,'  vigorous  as  '  Vivian  Grey,'  tender 
as  '  Henrietta  Temple^  enthralling  as  '  Tancred,'  humorous  as  any  of  his 
former  works, '  Lothair,'  apart  from  the  interest  attaching  to  it  on  account 
of  the  position  of  its  author,  would  be  the  literary  succesa'of  the  season."— 
London,  Standard. 

"As  a  literary  production  the  new  story  is  all  that  the  admirers  of  'Vivian 
Grey '  could  have  wished.  The  deft  hand  has  lost  none  of  its  cunning.  Tho 
wealth  of  glowing  description,  whose  richness  becomes  at  times  almost  a 
painful  enjoyment,  the  keen  satire,  the  sparkling  epigram,  the  wonderful 
sketches  of  society,  the  airy  skimming  over  the  surface  of  life,  touching 
upon  its  fashionable  graces,  laughing  a  little  at  its  fashionable  follies — all  are 
here  aa  we  know  them  of  old.  The  brightness  is  undimmed  and  the  spirit 
id  unsubdued."— New  York  Tribune. 

In  1  vol.,  cloth,  12mo,  price  $2.00  ;  also,  in  paper,  octavo,  price  $1.00. 

***  Copies  of  cither  mailed,  post-free,  to  any  address  within  the  United 
States,  on  receipt  of  price.  

UNIFORM  EDITION  OF  DISRAELI'S  NOVELS, 

The  undersigned  will  publish  immediately  a  cheap  uniform  edition  of 
Disraeli's  novels,  octavo,  paper  covers,  as  follows : 
I.  HENRIETTA  TEMPLE.    50c.       IV.  ALROY.    50c. 
II.  VENETIA.    50c.  V.  CONTAKINI  FLEMING.    5Qe, 

HI.  THE  YOUNG  DUKE.    50c.          VI.  VIVIAN  GREY.    GOc. 

D,  APPLETON  &  CO.,  Publishers,   New  York. 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


